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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized personality. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one gossiping about the latest scandal to involve a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

We would often spend the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, 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 much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

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

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, while that Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year has definitely been good for my self-esteem. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.