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He has always been a man of a truly outsized character. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person gossiping about the latest scandal to befall a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to placed a party hat on my head, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer all around, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

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

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, but its annual retelling certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.