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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized character. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. At family parties, he is the person chatting about the latest scandal to befall a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety all around, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. 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 contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling has definitely been good for my self-esteem. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.