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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one chatting about the newest uproar to catch up with a local MP, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was planning to join 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 advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

Thus, prior to me managing to don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at Christmas spirit in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, 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, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling 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”.