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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized character. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. At family parties, he is the person discussing the most recent controversy to catch up with a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, 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. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Morning Rolled On

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

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

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

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from 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 festive gaiety everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, 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 the story’s yearly repetition 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”.