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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized character. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to an extra drink. During family gatherings, he would be the one discussing the latest scandal to befall a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. Yet, on a particular Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, holding a drink in one hand, a suitcase gripped in the other, and fractured his ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but was unable to; 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, we resolved to drive him to the emergency room.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

By the time we got there, he’d gone from unwell to almost unconscious. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety all around, despite the underlying sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment 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 bustling about and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted DVT. And, although that holiday isn’t a personal favourite, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I couldn’t possibly comment, but hearing it told each year has definitely been good for my self-esteem. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.