Thornhill first responders have answered more than one 911 call to my address over the years so I’m acquainted with their routine when they arrive – asking what happened, how do you feel, where and what kind of pain you might have, monitoring vital signs like blood pressure and heart rate – but last week’s crew added a unique question: “Were there any witnesses?”
The question fit considering my visible injuries, a Rocky Balboa shiner highlighting one eye over a bloody, fat upper lip worthy of any drunken brawl.
Indeed there had been witnesses.
For more than a decade family have cautioned me never to walk alone with my dogs, in case I collapse on a trail tripping over a rock or root. “At least carry a cell phone, Mom”, they tell me, but what help would that be? My crown land trail is unmarked by any street signs that might prove helpful in directing a rescue. Only a random dog walker might find me.
For that reason I avoid walking late at night, or during inclement weather when other dogwalkers or ATVers are unlikely to venture out.
But for all my precautions, I never anticipated faceplanting in the middle of the paved street in front of an afternoon garage sale four doors from home.
I had become aware of at least four witnesses, all strangers so kind and helpful. One witness gathered my dogs’ leashes. Someone fetched a handful of tissues to sop blood from my hands. Two men stood ready to hoist me back to my feet as soon as I felt I could safely stand. And a young woman asked me to drape my arm over her shoulders while she supported me down the street to my gate, accompanied me into my house, and insisted I phone a family member to come and be with me before she would agree to leave.
Within ten minutes my daughter arrived. My Good Samaritan left. I soaked my scraped hands in dish detergent before my daughter applied Polysporin and bandaids.
About then I quit acknowledging her conversation. Had I sustained a concussion? Worried, she dialed 911.
In short order an ambulance and a Thornhill firetruck with four first responders arrived, unchained the gate, backed the ambulance up to my doorstep and set up a wheeled gurney.
The whole episode already had me embarrassed. Now to occupy two vehicles and six specially trained personnel to cope with my booboo … Major humiliation.
I joked with the attendant applying a blood pressure cuff to my upper arm, “I look like I’ve been in a fight with a neighbour. ” He wasn’t put off. He advised I go to Emergency to be checked our for a concussion. Outnumbered, I didn’t argue.
I did ask, though, to walk to the ambulance, not be bundled and wheeled out on the gurney. Two sets of flashing lights were spectacle enough for the neighbours.
On the drive to the hospital the EMS took a more detailed medical history, noted my address, and other information such as my medical card number. He had a relaxed style of comfort to my situation.
At the hospital he slowly walked into Emergency ahead of me, and handing my chart to the admitting nurse said deadpan, “She was in a fight with her neighbour.”
The look on the nurse’s face was priceless as she scanned me top to bottom – an 83-year-old woman with a black eye and a pulpy lip. Really?