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Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life figure. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he’s the one discussing the latest scandal to involve a local MP, or entertaining us with stories 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. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but his appearance suggested otherwise. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

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 what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer all around, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that charming colloquial address so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

After our time at the hospital concluded, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a local version of the board game.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – did we lose the holiday?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed DVT. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or involves a degree of exaggeration, is not for me to definitively say, but hearing it told each year 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”.