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He has always been a man of a bigger-than-life figure. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. During family gatherings, he is the person chatting about the newest uproar to catch up with a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club over the past 40 years.

We would often spend the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and instructed him to avoid flying. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

As Time Passed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us help him reach a treatment area, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer all around, even with the pervasive clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on bedside tables.

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

A Subdued Return Home

When visiting hours were over, we returned home to chilled holiday sides and holiday television. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

It was already late, and snow was falling, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Healing and Reflection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had actually punctured a lung and later developed 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 the story’s yearly repetition 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”.