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He has always been a man of a truly outsized personality. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one chatting about the most recent controversy to involve 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, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to drive him to the emergency room.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer all around, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to cold bread sauce and holiday television. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

Healing and Reflection

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed DVT. And, while that 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 hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.