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He has always been a man of a larger than life personality. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. During family gatherings, he’s the one discussing the latest scandal to catch up with a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit all around, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands 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 particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted DVT. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history 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 its annual retelling 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”.