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He has always been a man of a truly outsized character. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one discussing the newest uproar to involve a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He insisted he was fine 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 failed.

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

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time 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 help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas does not rank among my favorites, 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, 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”.