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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized figure. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

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

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted DVT. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.