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He has always been a man of a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one discussing the latest scandal to befall a local MP, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

We would often spend the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to placed a party hat on my head, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take 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 help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer in every direction, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

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

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

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

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, while that Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, 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”.