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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized personality. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he would be the one discussing the most recent controversy to involve a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

We would often spend the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. 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 instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, 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 – had we missed Christmas?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get DVT. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling 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”.