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This individual has long been known as a larger than life figure. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one gossiping about the latest scandal to involve a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share the holiday 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 took a fall on the steps, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from 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.

Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year 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”.