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Our family friend has always been a larger than life character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to another brandy. During family gatherings, he would be the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to catch up with a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, 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 couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

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

A Quiet Journey Back

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling has definitely been good for my self-esteem. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.