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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized figure. Clever and unemotional – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one gossiping about the most recent controversy to involve a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

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, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.

As Time Passed

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He insisted he was fine but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

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

A Deteriorating Condition

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the distinctive odor of hospital food and wind was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit all around, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

Even though he ultimately healed, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. And, even if that particular Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.