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Our family friend has always been a larger than life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he would be the one gossiping about the newest uproar to catch up with a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to take him to A&E.

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

A Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit all around, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, even if that particular Christmas 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 contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling has done no damage to my pride. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.