This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. During family gatherings, he is the person discussing the latest scandal to befall a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.
Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured 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 appearing more and more unwell.
The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.
So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.
We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?
Upon our arrival, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.
Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.
Upbeat nursing staff, 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 viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.
The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?
While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, 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 couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year 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”.
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