🔗 Share this article

He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to another brandy. At family parties, he would be the one gossiping about the latest scandal to involve a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday for forty years.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and snowing, 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 DVT. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.