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He has always been a man of a truly outsized personality. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person gossiping about the newest uproar to befall a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday 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. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to take him to A&E.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – 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 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”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.