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He has always been a man of a truly outsized figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to a further glass. At family parties, he’s the one chatting about the most recent controversy to involve a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

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

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

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

The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas 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 am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.