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He has always been a man of a truly outsized personality. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to catch up with a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day 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 planning to join 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. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to take him to A&E.

We considered summoning 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. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety all around, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so peculiar 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 watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history 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 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”.