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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to a further glass. During family gatherings, 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 different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday for forty years.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his 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 Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

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 get him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. And, while that Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or involves a degree of exaggeration, is not for me to definitively say, but its annual retelling 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”.