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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life character. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one discussing the most recent controversy to befall a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was planning to join family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky 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.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even 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 Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit 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.

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

A Quiet Journey Back

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. 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.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

The Aftermath and the Story

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 isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling 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”.