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He has always been a man of a larger than life character. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. At family parties, he’s the one chatting about the newest uproar to befall a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed DVT. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.