🔗 Share this article

He has always been a man of a larger than life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to another brandy. During family gatherings, he’s the one chatting about the newest uproar to catch up with a local MP, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to take him to A&E.

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

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.