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He has always been a man of a truly outsized figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and not one to say no to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one gossiping about the latest scandal to befall a regional politician, or entertaining us with stories of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

We would often spend the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. Yet, on a particular Christmas, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. Consequently, he ended up back with us, making the best of it, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, 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 Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Upbeat nursing staff, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.

Heading Home for Leftovers

When visiting hours were over, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We watched something daft on television, likely a mystery drama, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and it had begun to snow, and I remember experiencing a letdown – did we lose the holiday?

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get DVT. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, is not for me to definitively say, but the story’s yearly repetition 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”.