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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. At family parties, he’s the one chatting about the latest scandal to befall a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday for forty years.

It was common for us to pass 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 tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to placed a party hat on my head, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas 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 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”.