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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life character. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to a further glass. At family parties, he would be the one discussing the latest scandal to befall a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer all around, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but its annual retelling has done no damage to my pride. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.