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He has always been a man of a larger than life character. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to a further glass. During family gatherings, he’s the one chatting about the newest uproar to catch up with a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity 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. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, 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 Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit all around, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

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 truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but hearing it told each year has definitely been good for my self-esteem. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.