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He has always been a man of a larger than life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to a further glass. During family gatherings, he would be the one discussing the latest scandal to catch up with a local MP, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Therefore, before I could even 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 Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer all around, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment 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 particular to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, 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?

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or involves a degree of exaggeration, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.