Who: Went to see my cardiologist, Dr. Gregg Yamada where I had an EKG test in his office.
What: Dr. Yamada hastily called Queen’s ER, made arrangements to quickly report to ER, for ultrasound testing on my sciatic right leg to detect possible blood clots.
When: Tuesday, Aug. 4.
Why: I discussed my earlier and somewhat traumatic ER visit on July 17, which was preceded by a painful plane ride home from York.
Where: Queen’s ER is where you seek treatment but need blind faith — to wait at least half a day.
******************
Unless you’re bleeding or have a life-threatening event like a heart attack, the Queen’s ER is not a place you want to be as you await medical attention.
I was somewhat lucky this time; a doctor’s insistent call is like getting an upgraded room; by the time I reached the ER, the check-in desk had my name, medical cards data, and even weight, because of my previous visit. I was wheelchaired into one of those cubicles with a gurney-bed, and the partitioned space is like a private suite of sorts.
The last time I was there, I had to do the manual check-in, and I was wheeled to an uncomfortable hard-plastic seat against the hallway, where other folks awaiting attention were side-by-side in the corridor. There’s little or there’s no privacy or an amenity like a comfy mini-sofa.
Patience and perseverance are virtues when you’re admitted to ER; you wait and wait and wait some more. I was there for five hours in July, where the doctor checked out my severe right leg pain, and prescribed 2.5 mg of oxycodone for relief. It worked, but not for long. I must have been traumatized by the pain, because I didn’t – maybe couldn’t? – make a trek to the hallway restroom, and the hallway was frigid because of the air-conditioning. I was just about ready to request a blanket, when a nurse came by to advise that I would be released shortly, which was about 15 minutes later.
I share these reactions just in case you wind up at Queen’s ER. It is unlike TV Emergency Rooms, certainly not like “The Pitt,” the remarkable HBO Max streaming show with overstated tension and high ratings which has jump-started Noah Wylie’s career with Emmy Awards to boot.
At my most recent visit on Aug. 4, I was offered (ditto, my wife) a heated blanket for comfort, and I was able to recline and “sleep” while I waited and waited for some medical attention. About two hours later, someone came to draw blood, and I suggested which vein should be poked, since that’s where all my blood checks function best. Six vials were taken, and then the waiting continued.
For the record, I visited the restroom three times; a wheelchair was parked in front of my portal, but for third trek, Vi had to go searching for an available wheelchair. When I returned from my pee biz, a nurse — unsure who she was, or her work status — made a snarly comment, “You going again?” I said, “It depends. I don’t know for sure.” To which she surmised, “We should bring you a bottle,” and disappeared down the hallway, never returning with the suggested “bottle.” I thought her attitude, given the situation, was negative and nasty and shamelessly unprofessional.
I was getting a bit hungry, but there’s no snack window or any kind of food service in ER, so Vi trekked to the Starbucks concession inside the main lobby of Queen’s and she had to take a round-about route, because the lone public elevator, which connects ER with the Queen’s main lobby and valet parking. I don ‘t suggest packing a bento if you’re bound for the ER, but a snack or two might be kosher. FYI, ER has been under construction renovation for months now, and no one seems to know when the job will be completed and when the lone elevator will be functional again.
During the fourth hour of waiting, someone finally arrived to do the ultrasound test to detect blood clots, if available. The device included little metallic heads that are run up and down, with gel, down the leg; there’s a round of strange noises, and the procedure lso is recorded on a computer screen.
So with this ultrasound test over, I figured I might see the light at the end of the tunnel. But had to wait some more for the results. I don’t recall the time, but happily, two aides soon stopped by to say, “no clots.” Or translation: “You will be released.”
Earlier, I had asked several nurses about what kind of timetable I would be facing, and all of ‘em said these tests done when it’s time to do them; and there’s no rule on who or what will be on the agenda, so yes, patience is what you need to get through the day.
After about five hours, a nurse brought the documents for patient release, so I was finally able to check out and grab a meal. The nurse was kind enough to whisk me on a wheelchair through the back roads of Queen’s Hospital, to head – with valid ID she could swipe to open doorways to access elevators – to reach the Same Day Surgery region, which is a stone’s throw from valet parking. I pray and hope that I don’t have another ER visits anytime soon; I’ve had my quota for the year.
