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He has always been a man of a truly outsized figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to a further glass. At family parties, he is the person gossiping about the most recent controversy to befall a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit in every direction, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, 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, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.