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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. At family parties, he’s the one discussing the latest scandal to befall a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to take him to A&E.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety in every direction, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. 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, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition has done no damage to my pride. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.