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He has always been a man of a truly outsized figure. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to another brandy. During family gatherings, he is the person gossiping about the most recent controversy to catch up with a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club for forty years.

It was common for us to pass the holiday morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.

The Morning Rolled On

The hours went by, however, the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but his appearance suggested otherwise. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

Therefore, before I could even don any celebratory headwear, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Rapid Decline

When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being peaky to barely responsive. People in the waiting room aided us get him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind permeated the space.

Different though, was the spirit. People were making brave attempts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; tinsel hung from drip stands and portions of holiday pudding went cold on bedside tables.

Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that lovely local expression so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to cold bread sauce and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, perhaps a detective story, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a local version of the board game.

By then it was quite late, and snowing, and I remember feeling deflated – did we lose the holiday?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling has definitely been good for my self-esteem. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.