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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 an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one discussing the newest uproar to catch up with a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, 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

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety all around, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were bustling about and using that lovely local expression so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and it had begun to snow, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get a serious circulatory condition. And, although that holiday does not rank among my favorites, 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 certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.