🔗 Share this article

This individual has long been known as a larger than life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he is the person chatting about the most recent controversy to befall a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players during the last four decades.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

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

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed deep vein thrombosis. 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, is not for me to definitively say, but hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.