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He has always been a man of a truly outsized personality. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he would be the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to befall a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, 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 considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, 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 Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted DVT. And, although that holiday 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 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”.