On Sunday, Nov. 10 at about 6 a.m., paramedics arrived at my Jones Street home in response to my wife’s earlier 911 call. Fire department staff arrived just instants after, for backup. The prompt arrival of these emergency respondents was matched by the efficiency by which paramedics prepared me for, and carried me onto the ambulance that bore me to the ER of Stratford General Hospital.
The ER experience remains hazy in my recollections. “Efficient,” perhaps “eerily calm,” yet “empathetic” might characterize the assessment process of the ER, which saw me interrogated, probed, moved from bed to stretcher over to CT scanner, and back to Emerg. Nurse-in-training “Lori” was but one of several kind nurses and technicians encountered. The ER doctor appeared to make the important call that, without mobility let alone balance, up to a room on third floor surgical I went.
My former GP (Dr. Parsons), oversaw matters throughout my sojourn – in consultation with the ENT specialist (Dr. Hughes). Truly, I never felt alone or anonymous. On the floor, a host of nurses (Lisa, Amy, Sherri, Ann, hopefully no others I’ve missed) fussed over me throughout their rounds and readings, tending always to be empathetic, and notably so.
Meanwhile, offsite, audiology exams were coordinated between hospital and testing service provider by floor nurses, while my own GP (Dr. Tong) and his office expedited referrals and prescriptions on my behalf. The office of the ENT specialist even pushed through an earlier appointment date than had been planned for discharge, while my GP called personally for a direct, post-discharge update.
My whole encounter of local medical procedures and infrastructure here in Stratford-Perth was a text-book example of how a critical-care medical system should work.
From 911, to ambulance, to hospital ER, to inpatient and then outpatient, the health care delivered locally ensured that only the malady itself will affect my future.
Canadians are often unaware of how little others have in comparison to us, and grumble often that a nearly-full pint is a glass half-empty. My glass – the glass of someone who is nobody special except to those that love or worry for him was definitely 95 per cent full that Sunday morning. And, I’d like every local reader, as well as all those medical staff who were so kind and helpful during a very scary time, to know my true appreciation of that fact.
Lorrie Naylor, Stratford