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He has always been a man of a larger than life character. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to another brandy. During family gatherings, he’s the one discussing the most recent controversy to befall a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to take him to A&E.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, 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”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed DVT. And, even if that particular 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 a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling 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”.