Our family friend has always been a bigger-than-life personality. Clever and unemotional – and never one to refuse to another brandy. Whenever our families celebrated, he is the person gossiping about the newest uproar to involve a member of parliament, or entertaining us with stories of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players for forty years.
Frequently, we would share the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, before going our separate ways. However, one holiday season, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he took a fall on the steps, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and advised against air travel. Thus, he found himself back with us, doing his best to manage, but looking increasingly peaky.
The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and was unsuccessful.
Thus, prior to me managing to put on a festive hat, my mum and I decided to get him to the hospital.
We considered summoning an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?
By the time we got there, he’d gone from peaky to barely responsive. Other outpatients helped us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air filled the air.
What was distinct, however, was the mood. People were making brave attempts at holiday cheer everywhere you looked, notwithstanding the fundamental sterile and miserable mood; festive strands were attached to medical equipment and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on nightstands.
Upbeat nursing staff, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were working diligently and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.
Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to chilled holiday sides and festive TV programming. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and engaged in an even sillier game, such as a local version of the board game.
The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – was Christmas effectively over for us?
While our friend did get better in time, he had in fact suffered a punctured lung and later developed a serious circulatory condition. And, even if that particular Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has gone down in family lore as “the Christmas I saved a life”.
Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, 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”.
A passionate writer and traveler sharing insights on personal growth and lifestyle from a UK perspective.
