This individual has long been known as a truly outsized character. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one gossiping about the newest uproar to catch up with a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.
It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.
The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.
Thus, prior to me managing to 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?
When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind filled the air.
What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.
Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so particular to the area: “duck”.
Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.
It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?
Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition has done no damage to my pride. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.
