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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to another brandy. At family parties, he would be the one chatting about the latest scandal to involve a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine 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 did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

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

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

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

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get DVT. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, 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”.