🔗 Share this article

He has always been a man of a truly outsized personality. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. During family gatherings, he’s the one discussing the latest scandal to involve a local MP, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

It was common for us to pass Christmas 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 fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to take him to A&E.

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

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

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

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted DVT. And, while that Christmas 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 contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling 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”.