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He has always been a man of a truly outsized figure. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he is the person gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, 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.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a local version of the board game.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.