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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he’s the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to involve a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. 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, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, while that Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, but hearing it told each year 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”.