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Our family friend has always been a larger than life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. During family gatherings, he’s the one gossiping about 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 during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Morning Rolled On

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

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

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides 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.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get DVT. And, while that Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, but hearing it told each year 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”.