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This individual has long been known as a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. At family parties, he would be the one gossiping about the latest scandal to befall a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety all around, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed 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 particular to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore 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 has definitely been good for my self-esteem. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.