To human, and dog kindness

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It started as a normal day. In the afternoon, I took Daisy to the dog park, where she romped around with a dozen other dogs as the dog servants and poop-scoopers chatted.

From time to time, a whirl of dogs would eddy around my legs, then whirl away.

Then it happened: something or somethings collided with the back of my knee. I went down sideways, feeling a crunching tear in my left knee.

The good one.

I hit the snow-covered ground hard as the pain flared in my knee. I lay on my side, holding my knee. My left leg screamed pain from hip to toe.

People rushed to me to help me up, but I knew I could not rise. They helped roll me gently onto my back as I continued to hold my knee, bent at a right angle. One of the dog servants, a very kind man from Wales named Tony, offered to help me straighten my leg, but I told him no. At that point, pain made it impossible.

I knew what it was, but did not want to think about it. It was the same thing that happened to my right leg nine years ago: I tore the tendons behind my knee that extend my lower leg. It required surgery and months of physiotherapy to get functionality back, and it’s still not what it used to be.

Back to the moment: dogs gathered to lick my face as I lay on the ground. Tony placed his hands on my knee to keep it warm. Other dog servants called 9-1-1 and fetched blankets to keep me warm. Daisy the Danger Doodle lay beside me, one paw across my chest.

Fortunately, Tony turned out to have military first-aid training. Another dog servant called Dan is currently in the military and offered more first-aid ability.

And that’s where humanity and doggity ran up against reality and the politics today: the ambulance would take at least an hour. The dispatcher promised to call back in 30 minutes if it looked to be longer than that.

An hour. Lying in pain on my back in the middle of snowy park as the sun set.

Time for Plan B. I called my wife to come fetch me with the car. One of the dog-servants fetched a toboggan (another advantage of being Canadian: everyone has a toboggan). The humans helped onto it (it took three large men—I am not light). A neighbour took Daisy to her own home. Three men pulled the toboggan to the roadside.

My wife, Roxanne, arrived soon, and three big guys lifted me into the car. Again, I am not light. And my need to keep my knee at a particular angle made the exercise even more awkward.

So now the next dilemma: where to seek medical treatment? The emergency rooms in Ottawa are notorious for wait times of 8, 10, even 16 hours for treatment.

My reproduction of the screen in the Ottawa Hospital emergency waiting room.

While the regional hospitals can take you almost immediately, they don’t necessarily have the services you need.

We tried a regional hospital, where I did not wait long for x-rays. Doctor Hosseini assessed my injury, and it was what I knew and dreaded: my quadriceps tendon had torn away from the patella, taking part of the bone with it. Treatment would require surgery.

But the regional hospital (very nice professionals at Kemptville, Ontario Hospital!) doesn’t have an orthopaedic surgery department. So they gave me a “Zimmer brace” to stabilize my leg and referred me to the Ottawa Hospital’s Civic campus.

In and out of Kemptville Hospital: three hours, including assessment, x-rays and doctor’s examination. Cost: $0.

I went home, got five hours of sleep, and then presented myself at the Civic Hospital for 6 a.m. A doctor fetched me at 9. He confirmed Dr. Hosseini’s diagnosis, and made arrangements for surgery.

Once again, humanity and professionalism run up against the brick wall of our corrupt political system. Dr. Matt could not give me a definite time or date for the surgery. He promised the hospital would call me when they had an opening in the schedule.

Humanity is kind. We help each other when needed.

But then, there are sociopaths who strive to prevent the most human characteristic, kindness. They band together to erect as many barriers to care for others, in order to hoard wealth and ensure the highest standard of care for only themselves.

You can spot them: they’re wealthy. And they usually call themselves “conservatives.”

I want to thank all those dog-walking people who stayed with me while I lay immobile on the snow, who provided the care that they could, who went out of their way to ensure I would get off the ground, who looked after my dog. The professionals who worked to make me as comfortable as I could be, who treated me so gently and strove against a system they did not create to help me become mobile again.

And I thank all of you for reading this.

Oh yes, a call to action

As a communication professional, I know every message should have a call to action.

Wherever you live, press your political leaders to properly fund health care. To bring in more ambulances so a broken leg doesn’t strand you on your back in a snowy park for hours.

To hire more medical professionals, and pay them what they’re worth, so people are not waiting 10 hours in the emergency room to be seen by a doctor. Or a nurse. Or anyone.