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He has always been a man of a truly outsized figure. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to another brandy. At family parties, he is the person chatting about the most recent controversy to befall a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

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 how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit all around, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We watched something daft 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 snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – 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 went on to get DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.