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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. During family gatherings, he’s the one discussing the newest uproar to catch up with a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit all around, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

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

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, 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”.