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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. During family gatherings, he’s the one discussing 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 during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

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

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but its annual retelling certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.