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Our family friend has always been a larger than life personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to a further glass. At family parties, he is the person gossiping about the most recent controversy to catch up with a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, 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 was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get DVT. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.