He has always been a man of a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. At family parties, he would be the one gossiping about the newest uproar to befall a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.
It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.
The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. 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.
Thus, prior to me managing to placed a party hat on my head, 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, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind was noticeable.
The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer all around, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.
Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.
Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.
By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?
Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get a serious circulatory condition. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but its annual retelling has done no damage to my pride. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.
Lena Hoffmann is a seasoned journalist with a passion for uncovering stories that matter, specializing in German current affairs and digital media trends.
