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Our family friend has always been a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. At family parties, he’s the one discussing the newest uproar to befall a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to take him to A&E.

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

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily 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 holiday television. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted DVT. And, while that Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.