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He has always been a man of a truly outsized character. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to a further glass. At family parties, he’s the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to catch up with a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

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

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, 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, is not for me to definitively say, but hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.