An ambulance in Edmonton on Feb. 28, 2014.JASON FRANSON/The Canadian Press
David Turnbull is a former paramedic and a retired communications professor from Toronto’s Seneca College.
As a paramedic in a diverse city, I was trained in logic and understanding different cultures. My reasoning had to be scientifically sound.
And through experience, I also had highly developed intuition. Paramedic’s intuition. I had that seemingly magical ability to “just know” what was going on. And it wasn’t just good luck. I was a connoisseur of “physiognomic appreciations” – the skill of recognizing and discriminating among aspects of outward appearances. My life-saving wizardry came from hundreds of cases of “seeing it all” on the streets of downtown Toronto.
And I was almost always right.
However, in the case of Rui’s mother, I got it wrong.
My all-night shift started uneventfully that particularly hot summer night. My partner and I checked the equipment in the back of our ambulance, signed off on the rig, went over to the gas station to fill up, and stopped by the usual coffee shop for a couple of bacon and tomato on brown to go. We always got the bread “double-toasted.” A little crumbly, but that’s the way we liked it. We both had black coffee – but only from this joint. The owner used the finest beans around, and it seemed a shame to spoil the brew with cream.
Our first call came just before 1 a.m. It was a “Code 2,″ which is a non-emergency call. A young lad injured his leg earlier in the evening playing soccer, and it was still hurting him so his parents thought he’d better go to the hospital to have it checked. When we arrived at the hospital, X-rays were ordered, and the doctor felt it was best that the patient stay on our stretcher to avoid unnecessary moves, just in case there was a break. This meant a long wait for us, but it was the right approach.
My partner stayed with the patient and our stretcher, and I wandered into the waiting room to flip through the well-used newspapers and magazines left on the chairs.
The giant waiting area looked sterile under the wash of fluorescent lights. I hadn’t even started reading the first magazine when I was distracted by the only other person in there. A neatly dressed woman in her mid-20s, she was sitting at the far end of the room, clearly in distress. Fidgeting, sometimes breathing loudly, occasionally crying softly, she was obviously anxious about a patient, so I wandered over to chat with her.
I didn’t bother introducing myself; I just sat down beside her. Wearing an EMS uniform, it was pretty clear I was a paramedic.
The conversation started off ever so gently. I asked her if she was waiting for someone, she said it was her son, that he had only been there about 15 minutes and the doctor would examine him soon.
Then came some sweating, which wasn’t surprising considering it was a steamy, hot summer night. Then she asked me if the doctor would undress her young son to examine him. Before I could answer, the sweating turned to diaphoresis – profuse sweating that just wouldn’t stop. Then her speaking rate sped up and she said it was all over. The doctor would discover everything.
I quickly interjected and told her that I would not keep this conversation secret. I attempted to explain how I was required to report … well, she cut me off before I finished.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It’s over for me. The doctor will see it all.” At a much slower rate, almost methodically, she continued. “I’m done. I was wrong.”
There was no more sweating. Her breathing was deep, almost planned. Her measured statements continued. “They’ll see it all right away. It should not have been this way. My husband is on his way over now. He’s working the night shift over at the bakery. He may understand, but his mother won’t.”
“I’m going to call my mother-in-law now, and tell her. I want her to hear it from me, rather than others.”
I paused, trying to remember all her exact words, because I knew I’d need to repeat them in a courtroom. “What are you going to tell your mother-in-law?” I asked her in a matter-of-fact voice.
“I’ll just come clean. There’s no point in attempting to hide what I didn’t do.”
“Sorry. What you didn’t do?” I said in an uncharacteristically surprised voice.
“I didn’t mend his socks. They each have holes so big almost all of his toes are sticking through. I should have done it last week, but I was making the big batch of jam. It’s hardly an excuse. I just am not a good mother. I try hard, and then I fail. And then, now, it … is seen. Everyone will know. I’ve disgraced my son. My husband will be shamed, but will forgive me. But I don’t know how – if ever – I’ll get back in my mother-in-law’s good books.”
As I tried to compose myself, feeling a sense of relief that made me think I was lighter than air, she continued.
“I’m going to start by doing a big spaghetti dinner this Saturday night for the entire family. Everyone loves my spaghetti. I put the sauce on two days before the dinner to let it simmer. We’ll bring out all the wine we just made.”
“And I’ll have Rui’s socks mended so perfectly, they’ll look like new.”