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He has always been a man of a larger than life personality. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to an extra drink. At family parties, he is the person gossiping about the newest uproar to involve a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to take him to A&E.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed DVT. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.