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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized figure. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. During family gatherings, he is the person gossiping about the latest scandal to involve a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Therefore, before I could even put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety all around, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

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

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed 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”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.