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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized character. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to a further glass. At family parties, he’s the one discussing the newest uproar to catch up with a local MP, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to take him to A&E.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit all around, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted 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 contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, 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”.