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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he would be the one discussing the most recent controversy to befall a local MP, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity 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, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

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

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit all around, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted DVT. And, although that holiday 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, is not for me to definitively say, but its annual retelling certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.