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This individual has long been known as a larger than life figure. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to a further glass. During family gatherings, he’s the one gossiping about the newest uproar to befall a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players 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, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; 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 drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Deteriorating Condition

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety in every direction, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get DVT. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.