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He has always been a man of a larger than life personality. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to an extra drink. Whenever our families celebrated, he would be the one discussing the newest uproar to befall a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. 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, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as put on a festive hat, my mother and I made the choice to take him to A&E.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

Upon our arrival, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on nightstands.

Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as a local version of the board game.

It was already late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and later developed DVT. And, while that Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year has done no damage to my pride. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.