Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he would be the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to befall a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.
We would often spend the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.
The Morning Rolled On
The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.
So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.
We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?
A Deteriorating Condition
By the time we got there, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.
Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.
Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.
Heading Home for Leftovers
Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.
It was already late, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?
Healing and Reflection
While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition has done no damage to my pride. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.