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Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to another brandy. During family gatherings, he would be the one gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet 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 was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit all around, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

Healing and Reflection

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, 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 its annual retelling 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”.