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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to a further glass. During family gatherings, he would be the one discussing the newest uproar to involve a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday for forty years.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided 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 Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit all around, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

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

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, 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 certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.