🔗 Share this article

This individual has long been known as a larger than life character. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person gossiping about the most recent controversy to catch up with a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day 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 took a fall on the steps, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety all around, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.