My night in the ER- Part 5
Updated: Aug 24
Not long after I returned from my X‑Ray, a nurse came to ask whether I wanted to see Dave and offered to bring me to him. Of course I said yes. She helped me up and guided me into a wheelchair, not the usual kind, but one that could only be pushed from behind, meaning I had no control over it once seated. She wheeled me to Dave’s area, where I stood beside him and finally took a proper look at his injuries. Most had already been cleaned and bandaged, except for his chin and the streaks of dried blood across his face.
Dave beamed when he first saw me. “Hey! You were in your first motorcycle accident!” he said, far too cheerfully. His tone was more alarming than the words themselves. I replied, “My first and…” hoping he’d finish the sentence with last, because I had no intention of ever getting on a bike again. He didn’t. I tried again: “My first and…” Still nothing. I was stunned by his obliviousness, but considering the trauma, I let it go. The next day I learned he’d been given medical fentanyl in the ambulance. That explained everything: the cheerfulness as he was wheeled in, the oversharing with everyone, and the bizarre humour. Dave’s humour is often "off", but being happy about me experiencing an accident was “max‑off.”
In Dave’s “room” (really just a curtained section of the ER), I noticed that the first responders had picked up the detached saddlebag and brought it with him. When I looked inside, I realized it was Dave’s saddlebag, the one with all his clothes. Thankfully, he always carries both our toothbrushes and some of my progesterone (I’m on hormone therapy post‑menopause). My estrogen, however, was still in the other saddlebag, left behind on the bike.
It was now 7:30 p.m., a little more than three hours after the accident which had occured at 4:10pm. I was still with Dave when a police officer arrived; the first time police had been able to speak with him. We learned that the collector lane of the 401, where the accident occurred, was still closed. This is standard protocol when police aren’t yet sure whether victims will survive; investigations for potential fatalities are far more thorough than those for non‑fatal accidents. The officer asked again about our speed. This time Dave said that we were going no more than 40km/h. He asked whether we had seen the vehicle that hit us; both of us answered no. He took our phone numbers, explained that he’d contact us later with the police report for insurance purposes, and added that the highway would now be reopened.
During my short visit with Dave, my sternum began to ache. When I touched it, the pain tripled instantly. A nurse soon arrived to take me back to my section; the doctor was finally ready to be see me. I didn’t see the doctor right away. The first nurse I’d met when I arrived asked how I was doing, and I mentioned the sternum pain. He immediately said I needed to be transferred out of the low‑trauma section; sternum pain required further assessment in mid‑trauma. So once again, I was wheeled away in that restrictive chair. He warned me the next section was busier and that the wait would be longer, and he was right.
At first, they left me in the wheelchair in the hallway. That’s when I started worrying about my daily medication and realized I should go back to Dave’s room to get some. My phone was also dying, and I wanted the super‑duper portable charger in Dave’s bag. Things were painfully slow in that part of the ER; if you needed anything, you had to ask. After more than an hour, and once my phone had finally died, I asked if someone could bring me to Dave. I promised I’d be quick, and I was. I grabbed the charger and my pills, kissed Dave, and returned to my section. This time they gave me a bed. I charged my phone and texted Dave. At 9:30 p.m., he learned he had bruised ribs and damaged lungs, but more tests were needed (Further testing the next day would show 3 broken ribs). He was told he’d be admitted to the ICU for observation and further testing for two to three days. That was the final nail in the coffin for our trip to Niagara‑on‑the‑Lake.
Back in my “room,” I waited. And waited. And waited. My wounds were still open and dirty. At 12:15 a.m., I finally saw a doctor. I was asked, for the fourth time, whether my tetanus shot was current. Thanks to my recent release from the CAF, I knew I wasn’t due until early 2028. He offered to give me one anyway so I’d be covered for another ten years. I agreed. He examined me to ensure nothing besides my sternum was concerning, then said he’d order a CT scan of my upper body. A nurse, he added, would come clean and bandage my wounds. Shortly after the nurse left, Dave texted me that he’d been transferred to the ICU — C5, bed 59.
An hour or so later, a nurse arrived and attempted to clean my wounds. I say attempted because he started with those tiny alcohol pads — the kind similar in shape to the one you get after eating greasy food. The fabric barely touched my skin before I screamed in pain and said, “No fu**ing way!” He insisted that it was important, reminiscing about his mother using alcohol on his cuts when he fell off his bike as a kid. I don’t care about your nostalgia, man. You’re not cleaning my wounds with that, I thought. After I insisted, he switched to water. As he bandaged me, he asked about my job. When I said I was retired military, he told me he was thinking of joining the CAF. I encouraged him, saying it wasn’t that hard and that the biggest downside, in my opinion, was needing to move wherever the CAF required. Then he said, “But you have to do basic training,” to which I repeated, “It’s not that hard.” A few minutes later, he added that he wanted to join the special forces — JTF2. It took me a moment to reconcile his fear of basic training with his dream of joining one of the demanding unit in the country, but I explained that he’d first need to serve in a regular unit and could apply to JTF2 later.
Once my wounds were cleaned and bandaged, I was told to move from the bed into a sort of lazy‑boy chair in the hallway. Someone would come get me for the CT scan later. So I waited again. Hunger crept in — it was past midnight, and my last meal had been more than ten hours earlier. I tried to comfort myself with thoughts about the benefits of fasting.
At 2:30 a.m., I was finally wheeled to the CT scan room. It was my first CT scan. I’d had MRIs before, but never this. CT scans are far more straightforward and comfortable. There’s more space, less claustrophobia, and the noise is gentle compared to the violent racket of an MRI. The technician warned me I’d feel very warm and that at one point I’d feel like I was peeing, just a sensation she added. She was absolutely right, and I was grateful for the warning.
After the scan, I was brought back to my lazy‑boy chair in the ER. It was now 3:30 a.m., and I was exhausted. I asked for a blanket and tried to sleep. The lighting in that section was brutal — harsh, fluorescent, relentless. I used the blanket to cover my eyes and managed to doze off. I woke around 5:30 a.m., and not long after, the doctor leaned over to tell me the CT scan was clear, nothing broken. He said someone would put fresh bandages on my wounds and that I’d be released. As promised, a nurse came, changed my bandages, handed me a supply kit so I could care for them myself, and told me I was free to go. So off I went, wearing my blue hospital gown into the bathroom to get dressed: Harley shirt, oversized rain pants, torn socks, and two shoes, one with laces hanging by a thread. At 6:03 a.m., I stepped outside the ER, wondering how to find Dave.
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