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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to another brandy. During family gatherings, he would be the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to catch up with a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken 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 appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to take him to A&E.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety all around, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get DVT. And, while that Christmas 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 contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, 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”.