Picture this : I am hard at work on my “husband to-do-list”, aimlessly moving things from one end of the basement to the other, blaring 90s rock in the background and somehow thinking I am making progress. I think to myself, ‘it’s a little damp down here’. My head spins around and I my eyes catch sight of the dehumidifier in the corner. I think to myself, ‘well, my wife is going to ask my anyway’…so I climb over what was once the pool table (now a home to various boxes, tools, and useless man toys). I make my way over the comic long boxes, still hoping my wife doesn’t really know how many are down here. I am in reach of the dehumidifier when I straddle a dishevelled cat post and stretch my hand past every single item we thought we needed in the moment but ultimately decided it would be best suited to be in a corner of the basement for the past seven years. Once I got past our past discretions and swung my leg over, I had both hands on the dehumidifier and smiled as if I was Indiana Jones replacing an idol with a bag of dirt. That euphoric moment quickly turned into Indy in a pit of snakes as I lifted the machine, took a step, cat ran by, tripped me and the long promised dehumidifier (which had to weigh 50 – 60lbs if I am being realistic, 80-90lbs if I am being hyperbolic). It fell. All of the weight landed directly on my big toe. That toe shattered like the hopes and dreams of all the children who have ever had hopes and dreams. Then was a long moment of disbelief followed by a long silent scream.
Have you ever broke a toe? It leads to the most magical dance, as you call upon the the spirits of the hopping, toe stubbing gods to make the pain go away. When that fails you start breathing like a overly expressive woman in labour, as if you are going to suck the broken bone through your body and spit it out your mouth and grow a new one like an earthworm without a head. Finally, when all else fails you result to little league softball triage as you walk around in circles quoting your coach in your head – “walk it off…walk it off”. Then when you realize your little league coach was an idiot, you walk upstairs and tell your wife that you are also an idiot.
I went three days without medical assistance, because, yes I am that much of a badass. In case you forgot I had a broken frickin’ toe. In this time the toe had filled with blood, nail was black and green, and my ability to put weight on that foot was seriously lacking. So I sucked up my none existent toughness and drove myself to the hospital.
Now before I talk about my hospital experience, let me note that I am in Canada. Being a Canadian I am entitled to free health care. Trust me, I know how lucky I am. When I bitch about my treatment, please forgive my ironic tone as I recount my experience. Regardless of my thoughts of my medical treatment I know am and head and hands above the majority of the world and am grateful for it and do not take it lightly. That being said, it is all I know and while it might make me a worldwide jackass, I still invoke my privileged right to bitch.
I drove to the hospital at 10pm on a weekday, thinking it would be slow. I sat down in triage and noted the sign above me that said the triage nurse will see me within ten minutes of arrival. Forty minutes later I saw the triage nurse. She concurred the blackened toe was broken and they would need to take an x-ray. I was then regulated back to the waiting room. In said room I watched children walk in with heads busted open, rednecks with missing thumbs and elderly ladies who “thought the end was near“. Now I wasn`t sure if she was just talking about her own lifespan, or perhaps she was a prophet and was doing us the kindness of letting us know that we were about to shuffle off this mortal coil. Either way, as I surveyed the room I realized my swollen, discoloured appendage was pretty far down the totem pole. I got up, limped my way out of the land of misfit toys and drove home.
I returned the next morning. Thinking that even injured people must have jobs, my wait would be shorter. I was incorrect. After thirty minutes the triage nurse said I needed x-rays. Thanks. Back to waiting room. One hour. Nurse calls my name and the name of ten other patients. We are taken to a different waiting room called the “green zone“. We were not give an explanation, but I found myself trying to remember the plot of a Matt Damon movie I may or may not have seen. One hour. Nurse calls my name. I am in am in a room! I have traded ten year old magazines for tongue depressors and gauze. One hour. Doctor comes in. He tells me I need an x-ray. Yep, thanks. I am told to wait for nurse to arrange said x-ray. Thirty Minutes. Nurse comes in and asked me to limp to x-ray. Sure. Guess what? X-ray has a waiting room! Thirty Minutes…..Alright this has dragged on long enough, I won`t test your patience as mine was….Lets just say I waited a while longer before I saw a doctor again. Guess what? Toe broken. The doctor then proceeds to drill four holes in the nail of my big toe to drain the blood. Did I mention that the slightest touch to my toe hurt like a blazing branding iron on a sunburn? Cue hyperventilating pregnant woman.
Three days and six hours later I have a diagnosed broken toe that is still as ugly as a toothless hooker on a Sunday morning, and a limp to rival Terry Fox (Yah! Canadian pop culture reference!). One thing has changed. Painkillers. I now had them. And then I had beer. And then……Wait…What was I talking about?
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