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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized figure. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to a further glass. During family gatherings, he is the person gossiping about the newest uproar to catch up with a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed DVT. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or involves a degree of exaggeration, 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”.