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Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life figure. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person gossiping about the newest uproar to involve a regional politician, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

We would often spend the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, 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 told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

The morning rolled on but the stories were not coming like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs 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 don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to drive him to the emergency room.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so particular to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture 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, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition has definitely been good for my self-esteem. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.