🔗 Share this article

He has always been a man of a larger than life personality. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person gossiping about the newest uproar to involve a local MP, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

We would often spend the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

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

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

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

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands 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 Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. 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 contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, 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”.