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Our family friend has always been a larger than life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person chatting about the latest scandal to involve a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so peculiar 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 local version of the board game.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed DVT. And, although that holiday 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 involves a degree of exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year has definitely been good for my self-esteem. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.