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This individual has long been known as a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one chatting about the newest uproar to befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

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

Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

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

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety all around, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, 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 feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed DVT. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.