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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he’s the one chatting about the latest scandal to befall a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

We would often spend the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the stories were not coming like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs 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 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

Upon our arrival, his state had progressed from unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us help him reach a treatment area, where the generic smell of clinical cuisine and atmosphere filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. People were making brave attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, even with the pervasive sterile and miserable mood; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.

Cheerful nurses, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were bustling about and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

After our time at the hospital concluded, we returned home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, 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 feeling deflated – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or involves a degree of exaggeration, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.