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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life personality. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. During family gatherings, he would be the one chatting about the latest scandal to involve a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get a serious circulatory condition. And, while that Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore 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 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”.