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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he is the person chatting about the most recent controversy to involve a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety all around, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, 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”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – was Christmas effectively over for us?

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 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 a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling 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”.