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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life character. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to another brandy. At family parties, he would be the one discussing the latest scandal to involve a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed 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. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, 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 later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, even if that particular Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.