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Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one chatting about the latest scandal to befall a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; 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 mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

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

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a local version of the board game.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, while that Christmas 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 couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.