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This individual has long been known as a larger than life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to another brandy. At family parties, he would be the one gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

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

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get DVT. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, but its annual retelling 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”.