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Our family friend has always been a larger than life character. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person discussing the most recent controversy to catch up with a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him 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 hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

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

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

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

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a local version of the board game.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.