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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life character. 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 befall a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, 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 fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, my mum and I decided 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 Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air was noticeable.

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 portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition has done no damage to my pride. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.