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Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life character. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one discussing the most recent controversy to befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales 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, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, 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. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. 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 mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to chilled holiday sides 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 regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted DVT. And, while that Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, 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”.