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This individual has long been known as a larger than life personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one gossiping about the latest scandal to involve a local MP, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday for forty years.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in 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 Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

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

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety in every direction, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore 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. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.