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He has always been a man of a truly outsized character. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to a further glass. During family gatherings, he’s the one chatting about the most recent controversy to catch up with a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

We would often spend the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent 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, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

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

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

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer in every direction, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

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

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted DVT. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore 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 hearing it told each year certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.