🔗 Share this article

This individual has long been known as a truly outsized personality. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he is the person discussing the most recent controversy to involve a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

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 peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

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 took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.