🔗 Share this article

He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he is the person discussing the latest scandal to befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing 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 couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit all around, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, 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 in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.