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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized figure. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person discussing the latest scandal to befall a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, 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

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

Healing and Reflection

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get a serious circulatory condition. 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, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition has done no damage to my pride. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.