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This individual has long been known as a larger than life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a local MP, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day 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 tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Thus, prior to me managing to placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

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

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, he’d gone from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of institutional meals and air was noticeable.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer all around, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, 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”.

A Quiet Journey Back

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

By then it was quite late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, 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”.