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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to another brandy. At family parties, he’s the one gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

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 planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. 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 did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts 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 bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.