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This individual has long been known as a larger than life figure. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to an extra drink. At family parties, he would be the one chatting about the latest scandal to involve a local MP, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to placed a party hat on my head, my mother and I made the choice 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

Upon our arrival, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Cheerful nurses, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

Healing and Reflection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or contains some artistic license, is not for me to definitively say, but hearing it told each year has definitely been good for my self-esteem. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.