An Emergency

It seems that my recent 911 call for the emergency services has attracted some attention, such that its implications should be brought to a wider audience.  So, for those interested, I shall expose.

Last month, I suffered an almost unbearable stomach pain that would not go away.  If you have ever suffered from a gall stone attack, then, you will have some idea.  In fact, and this may sound stupid, I let it persist for more than 24 hours (TUMS was useless).  I should also mention that my gall bladder had been removed many years ago.

“Tap, tap, tap.”

“Brr, brr.  Brr, brr ...”

“What service do you require?”

“Ambulance.  Please.”

“What’s the problem?”

(I wanted to say that I needed an ambulance … but I didn’t)

“I have a serious stomach pain.”

  (Some detail removed here)

“Ok, they will be there shortly.”

I sat down near to the window to await their arrival.

“Bang, bang, bang ...”

They were at my apartment door.  There had been no siren, no call from the lobby.  Scotty must have beamed them up.

Dressed in my pyjamas and a dressing gown, I was told to get onto the gurney, just given time to grab my wallet, phone, and meds, and wheeled towards the ambulance.

Without any further delay, we quickly, but silently, drove to the hospital.  I asked if the ambulance was sound-proofed, because I couldn't hear a siren.  “We only use the siren in an emergency.” she said, “It’s too dangerous for other traffic.”  I became very thoughtful, but kept my naive questions to myself.

Upon arrival at the hospital (about 45 minutes after my call) the gurney was wheeled into the Emergency Department and lined up behind four other gurneys … and we waited … and waited.

  Note:  University Hospital, London, Ontario.

After a period of about 20 minutes listening to the chatter between the ambulance teams, my team advised me that they had another call, would put me in a wheelchair, and transfer me to the main lobby.  Why just me? I thought (According to regulations, patients were not to be left alone until handed over to the duty doctor).  It was still winter, and I was, now, in the draughty main entrance wearing only pyjamas.  I must have been there for, at least, 50 minutes watching many walk-in patients come and go before I heard my name called.  Not having a wheelchair license, I attempted a clumsy journey to the other side of the room.  Then into a ward, where I was asked to wear a gown and lay on a bed   (Nearly 2 hours since my phone call).

The doctor, after listening to my story, decided that a blood test would be a good idea.  After about 25 minutes, I was officially admitted and wheeled upstairs to share a room with a guy recovering from heart by-pass surgery, who seemed to be mumbling a strange mantra behind a screen.  I was hooked-up to an intravenous drip line and additional blood-work was done.  Night came and a very nice nurse suggested that I try to sleep.

Next morning at 5 AM, more blood was taken, then, after breakfast (Remind me not to complain about airline food any more) I was told that the previous tests had revealed nothing.  Later, I was taken to the ultra-scan department and, hours later, more blood was sucked from me … I listened for the sound of Dracula.

The next day, I was sent for a CT-scan, given lunch, and informed that I could leave.  There I was, on my own, in my pyjamas, and very embarrassed standing in the main entrance trying to wave down a taxi.

I have a follow-up appointment with the hospital doctor next month but, so far, no one seems to have any idea of a diagnosis which doesn’t please my G.P.  Would it be wrong to say, “To be continued?”