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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to another brandy. During family gatherings, he’s the one gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and fractured his 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 humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition has done no damage to my pride. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.