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This individual has long been known as a larger than life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he is the person gossiping about the newest uproar to catch up with a local MP, 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 the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, 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 broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Morning Rolled On

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

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to take him to A&E.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to cold bread sauce and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite 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 later developed a serious circulatory condition. 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”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition has done no damage to my pride. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.