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He has always been a man of a truly outsized figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. At family parties, he would be the one discussing the latest scandal to involve a local MP, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to take him to A&E.

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

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

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

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, 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 the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.