I'm sitting in the living room listening to my colleagues debate whether to surprise their partners with a trip to Paris or London, and the only thing I can think about is last Christmas Eve, when my wife Jane found me unconscious on the bathroom floor.
December 24, 2025, 2:17 in the morning. Her scream echoed through the entire house:
"George! Oh my God! GEORGE!!!!"
I tried to speak, but the words came out slowly, incoherently.
My eyes met hers, but everything was blurred, as though I was looking through a frosted pane of glass.
She was sobbing, her voice breaking:
"You got up to use the bathroom and I heard a BANG! You weren't breathing!"
Her hands were shaking so badly that her phone slipped from her grasp several times as she tried to unlock it to call 911.
When she finally managed to unlock it, the screen lit up her tear-streaked face, her hesitant finger hovering over the emergency call button.
"Shall I call? George, shall I call an ambulance? Talk to me, PLEASE..."
I managed to shake my head and try to sit up.
Everything was spinning.
"I... I'm fine... I'm just... a little dizzy..."
But we both knew it. This was not normal. It was the third time in two months I had woken up on the floor. And this time there was blood.