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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he’s the one discussing the latest scandal to befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs 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 mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.

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

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, 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”.

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get a serious circulatory condition. And, while that Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling has done no damage to my pride. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.