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He has always been a man of a larger than life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he would be the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to befall a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity 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. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

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 isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.