🔗 Share this article

He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person discussing the newest uproar to befall a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players 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 planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety all around, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted DVT. And, while that Christmas 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 a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year 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”.