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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. During family gatherings, he is the person gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety in every direction, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas 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 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”.