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He has always been a man of a larger than life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one chatting about the latest scandal to befall a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided 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 unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety all around, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, 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 a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.