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This individual has long been known as a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one discussing the newest uproar to catch up with a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share Christmas 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 took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped 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 appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He insisted he was fine 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.

Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, 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

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

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

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

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

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, 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”.