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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to involve a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, 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 later developed 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”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, 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”.