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He has always been a man of a larger than life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person discussing the latest scandal to befall a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Morning Rolled On

The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to take him to A&E.

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

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.