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He has always been a man of a larger than life personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person gossiping about the newest uproar to befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer all around, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

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

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling 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”.