🔗 Share this article

He has always been a man of a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one chatting about the latest scandal to befall a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine 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 did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety all around, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, 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 experiencing a letdown – 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”.

If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, 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”.