Our family friend has always been a truly outsized personality. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to a further glass. Whenever our families celebrated, he’s the one discussing the most recent controversy to involve a member of parliament, or regaling us with tales of the notorious womanizing of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.
We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, some ten years back, when he was planning to join family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, holding a drink in one hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. The hospital had patched him up and advised against air travel. Consequently, he ended up back with us, trying to cope, but looking increasingly peaky.
Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but his condition seemed to contradict this. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed.
Therefore, before I could even placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided 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?
When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air was noticeable.
Different though, was the spirit. One could see valiant efforts at holiday cheer in every direction, notwithstanding the fundamental clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and dishes of festive dessert sat uneaten on bedside tables.
Positive medical attendants, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.
After our time at the hospital concluded, we headed home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We viewed something silly on television, likely a mystery drama, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a regionally-themed property trading game.
It was already late, and snowing, and I remember experiencing a letdown – had we missed Christmas?
While our friend did get better in time, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted a serious circulatory condition. And, even if that particular Christmas does not rank among my favorites, 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 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”.
Elara is a seasoned gaming journalist with a passion for slot mechanics and player strategies.
