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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to an extra drink. At family parties, he’s the one discussing the newest uproar to befall a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming like they normally did. 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 failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

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 distinctive odor of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

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

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year has definitely been good for my self-esteem. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.