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He has always been a man of a truly outsized personality. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person gossiping about the latest scandal to befall a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday for forty years.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular 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, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to placed a party hat on my head, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit all around, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or involves a degree of exaggeration, 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”.