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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life character. Clever and unemotional – and not one to say no to a further glass. During family gatherings, he is the person chatting about the latest scandal to involve a regional politician, or amusing us with accounts of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and broke his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, trying to cope, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He insisted he was fine but his appearance suggested otherwise. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided 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

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from poorly to hardly aware. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of clinical cuisine and atmosphere was noticeable.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at festive gaiety everywhere you looked, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.

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

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, perhaps a detective story, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.

By then it was quite late, and snow was falling, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?

The Aftermath and the Story

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

How factual that statement is, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.