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He has always been a man of a truly outsized personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one discussing the most recent controversy to befall a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

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

A Deteriorating Condition

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer all around, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

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 made our way home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed a serious circulatory condition. 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”.

If that is completely accurate, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.