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This individual has long been known as a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one discussing the newest uproar to catch up with a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

Healing and Reflection

While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.