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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized character. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person gossiping about 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 over the past 40 years.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer all around, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

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

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. 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 – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted 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 couldn’t possibly comment, 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”.