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Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one discussing the latest scandal 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.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

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

A Quiet Journey Back

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.