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Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to a further glass. At family parties, he would be the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to befall a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

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

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has become part of family legend 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 hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.