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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life character. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he would be the one chatting about the newest uproar to befall a regional politician, 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. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit all around, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression 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 viewed something silly 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?

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed DVT. 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 a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, 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”.