A helluva week – Part 1

Monday, July 12

Diana has documented the circumstances around our “helluva week” in the previous post.  Given that it is still pandemic times, I’ll go into some detail about my experience at North York General Hospital’s (NYGH) Leslie Street main hospital. To those looking for tales of horror, you’ve come to the wrong place. I have nothing but praise for the staff and the care I was given. But there are a few interesting bits and pieces in the tale.

After a very painful, bumpy drive 7 km from our home to the Hospital’s Emergency drop-off, Diana dropped me off and watched as I trudged towards the entrance. I’d been here before a few times, mostly for relatively minor things – something caught under my eyelid, for example. Given Covid, I expected things to be fairly quiet. I was wrong. I counted at least 20 people waiting ahead of me, with more in secondary waiting areas, as I provided my details and was directed to join the throng. The rows of seats were alternately taped off to allow for some physical distancing, and I was told to ditch my new KN95 mask for a hospital-provided 3-layer job. I suppose that its not uncommon these days for people to wear the same mask for days on end, so the policy makes some sense.

Things moved much more quickly than I had feared. Triage, registration and directions down different corridors based on need. I drew the short straw. “Back out the front door, turn right and go straight through the next door…it’s the orange lines you should follow”. My abdomen pulsing with (fortunately) contained rage and distended before me, I retraced my steps. Fortunately, the forecast storms with large hail were nowhere to be seen. Reached for the door. The sign on it read, “Ambulance Bay”. Where the heck are they sending me? From my memory, I pictured a large area with several roller-doors through which ambulances could drive out of the weather to deposit or receive their passengers. This area had now been repurposed, probably as a result of Covid precautions. Inside, rubber runners were laid above the pitted concrete of the driveway, and beyond some rows of trestle tables filled with medical supplies and instruments, there were two rows of white tarp-walled examination/observation rooms.

Hands sanitized; I was directed to room 6. Inside were the expected exam bed, a chair, and, well, a box of what looked like paper towel rolls. I eased myself onto the bed and waited.

Now, anyone who has been to emerg knows that their sense of urgency works on a different timescale to the hospital’s. After all, there are many patients waiting to see few doctors. I was prepared for a wait, and was beyond caring for how long. I just needed to sleep. However, it wasn’t long before a nurse took my vitals and not much longer before an IV was in and I was receiving more fluids than I’d been able to consume for days. When I awoke, not much later, the Iv was doing its job. Now I needed a washroom.

“Out that door, and the next one. Up the wooden ramp. It’s in the hut/cabin there. I now needed to cross the rough concrete floor, over two thresholds, up a wooden ramp and through another door while dragging my IV tree along with me. Was this to be my Sisyphean moment? And the washroom was outside from the ambulance bay in what was like a mini school portable. Up some ramps (step, ouch. Step, ouch). Nice and big once in there though.

Well, I made it, and the downhill journey also went without incident.

A couple of hours later, after being x-rayed and ultra-sounded, a member of the surgical team introduced herself and congratulated me on winning the prepaid, all-inclusive Laparoscopic Cholecystectomy with free accommodation, food and non-alcoholic beverages. Thank you, flawed but better-than-many, Canadian health care system. No “Honey, I need a band-aid. Put another mortgage on the house” worries here.

After a stop for my second Covid test of the day – results for the first will take 24 hrs. This one will only be an hour, I was led to my ward by a young PA (Patient Assistant(?), previously known as Porters(?) and shown into a spacious (not luxurious) private room. Sweet. But why? If you want one of these, or semi-private rooms here, you need private insurance or you pay directly. “You’re in isolation until the Covid result is in. Then you’ll be moved.” Oh well. Back to sleep I go. G’night.