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He has always been a man of a larger than life personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. During family gatherings, he is the person chatting about the most recent controversy to involve a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but its annual retelling 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”.