🔗 Share this article

Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person gossiping about the latest scandal to involve a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing 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. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured 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

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

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

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

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit all around, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, 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”.