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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized figure. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person gossiping about the newest uproar to involve a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day 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 took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming 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 couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

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

We considered summoning 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. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular 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 involves a degree of exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.