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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to a further glass. During family gatherings, he would be the one gossiping about the newest uproar to involve a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

We would often spend the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get DVT. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, 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”.