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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life character. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to a further glass. At family parties, he would be the one discussing the latest scandal to involve a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly 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 it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

Healing and Reflection

While our friend did get better in time, 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 become part of family legend 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 certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.