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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized personality. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and never one to refuse to another brandy. During family gatherings, he is the person chatting about the latest scandal to catch up with a local MP, or entertaining us with stories of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured 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.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, we resolved 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 Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, he had moved from being poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer in every direction, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

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

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We watched something daft 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 snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed DVT. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year has definitely been good for my self-esteem. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.