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Our family friend has always been a larger than life personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. At family parties, he is the person discussing the latest scandal to catch up with a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; 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, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.