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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized personality. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person discussing the newest uproar to befall a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming 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 couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

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

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

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

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling has definitely been good for my self-esteem. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.