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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized character. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one discussing the newest uproar to befall a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

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

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, 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 Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

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

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed DVT. 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 involves a degree of exaggeration, is not for me to definitively say, 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”.