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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized character. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person chatting about the latest scandal to involve a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his 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 anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as 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 how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed 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 Quiet Journey Back

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get 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”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year has definitely been good for my self-esteem. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.