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This individual has long been known as a larger than life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. At family parties, he is the person gossiping about the most recent controversy to involve a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

The morning rolled on but the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer all around, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so unique 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 festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, 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 – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. 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”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, 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”.