This individual has long been known as a truly outsized personality. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. At family parties, he would be the one chatting about the most recent controversy to involve a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering 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, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.
The Day Progressed
The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.
Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to get him to the hospital.
We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?
A Worrying Turn
When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.
What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer all around, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.
Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.
A Subdued Return Home
When visiting hours were over, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.
The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?
Healing and Reflection
Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.
