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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized personality. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. At family parties, he is the person gossiping about the most recent controversy to befall a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer in every direction, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and went on to get DVT. And, while that Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling 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”.