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This individual has long been known as a larger than life personality. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. During family gatherings, he’s the one discussing the latest scandal to catch up with a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

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

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, 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”.