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He has always been a man of a truly outsized figure. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. At family parties, he would be the one discussing the newest uproar to catch up with a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety in every direction, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

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

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

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

If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but hearing it told each year 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”.