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Our family friend has always been a larger than life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person chatting about the most recent controversy to catch up with a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing 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. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided to take him to A&E.

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

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit all around, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but hearing it told each year has definitely been good for my self-esteem. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.