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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to a further glass. During family gatherings, he’s the one gossiping about the latest scandal to befall a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky in one hand, his luggage 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, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly 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 it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get DVT. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling has definitely been good for my self-esteem. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.