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Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life figure. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one chatting about the newest uproar to befall a regional politician, 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 holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He maintained that he felt alright but he didn’t look it. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, even with the pervasive depressing and institutional feel; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get 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”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling has done no damage to my pride. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.