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He has always been a man of a larger than life figure. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one gossiping about the newest uproar to befall a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer all around, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We viewed something silly 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 snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year 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”.