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Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life personality. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to catch up with a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided to take him to A&E.

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

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer in every direction, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. 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 contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.