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Our family friend has always been a larger than life personality. Witty, unsentimental – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. At family parties, he’s the one discussing the most recent controversy to involve a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

Time passed, yet the stories were not coming as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Therefore, before I could even 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 what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit all around, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on tables next to the beds.

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

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We viewed something silly on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed 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, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.