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He has always been a man of a larger than life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a member of parliament, 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 holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Therefore, before I could even 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

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer all around, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, 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, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling has done no damage to my pride. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.