🔗 Share this article

He has always been a man of a truly outsized character. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to a further glass. During family gatherings, he is the person chatting about the newest uproar to befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales 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, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, 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?

A Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer in every direction, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, 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 headed home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year 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”.