This morning CBC announced the results of a poll of Western Quebecers asked to evaluate their medical system. A very high percentage said they did not feel safe; that they distrusted the ability of the Hull and Gatineau Hospitals to deal with emergencies.
I agree completely with this assessment ... and my distrust is based on personal experience.
A little over a year ago, Thanksgiving Sunday, 2006 to be exact, I was walking dogs up on hydro land at noon. I had the greyhound leashed. The other three were free. One of the dogs spooked the greyhound who bolted. There was an audible crack. I stood on the leash and looked at the damage. The baby finger on my right hand was twisted grotesquely.
I reached into my pocket for some baler twine to tie it to the hand, completed the walk and took the dogs home to feed them. Shock is a wonderful thing for numbing pain and allowing one to think.
I drove to the nearest emergency service at the Wakefield Hospital. When I got there I realized that Kenya had vomited all over the back seat (maybe she was reacting on my behalf). I went in and asked how long the waiting time would be, was told two hours and decided to take Kenya back to the cottage and then to return to the hospital.
When I got back, the waiting time had been revised to six hours.
In fact I was seen at 11 p.m. Many of the people waiting had come from the Hull and Gatineau Hospitals because the waits there were even longer.
The doctor looked at the x-ray and said she could not set it; that it was broken and dislocated; that I would have to go to the orthopaedic clinic at the Hull Hospital in the morning ... early ... to just walk in with my x-rays.
At the Hull Hospital I was seen after a couple of hours. The orthopaedic surgeon who examined me said it was a simple break, and the nurse splinted the baby finger to the adjacent finger in a half cast and told me to come back in a month.
A month later the finger was absolutely stiff, turned out from the hand and sideways at a very odd angle. It was another accident waiting to happen.
I said, "It's not straight."
The surgeon said the only way to make it straight was to operate the next morning. Make up your mind now.
After the operation in which the finger was re-broken and fastened with two screws, the finger was again splinted as before.
A week later some of the stitches were removed and the hand re-splinted. The surgeon said, "Well, it's straight. That's what you wanted."
A month later when I returned I was told that I would have to wait another month because the surgeon wasn't available and wouldn't be available till January.
I said that was impossible, that I had been in a cast since Thanksgiving and I would not leave my hand unattended for another month. I was told that it was impossible; that no other doctor would look at it. I became louder and the waiting room became silent as people waited for the drama to unfold. Another doctor agreed to see me and said I would need a great deal of physiotherapy to regain any use of that finger ... and of my right hand.
I went into Ottawa at that point, with all the x-rays and the second doctor's prescription for physiotherapy, and wept as I showed my hand to the physiotherapist. She told me that they would do their best, but I should not expect to have full use of the hand again; that it would never be perfect.
After a few weeks, and a lot of money, the physiotherapy intern working there suggested the Riverside Hand Clinic. It took some doing to get into their programme because my family doctor had to refer me to a doctor connected with the Ottawa Hospital.
In March, I was admitted into the programme by the plastic surgeon in charge, and told that physio alone would never have rectified the stiffness; that I needed to have the scar tissue removed; that all that time with it immobilized had created a huge mass of dense scar tissue similar to hardened crazy glue; that it was impossible for the tendons to move through it. He froze the hand and broke the scar tissue in a couple of places, and said he would operate when the hand was ready. Before he would perform the surgery I would have to go in three times a week for physio and go through a series of splintings to get the finger to passively move far enough to make the surgery worth doing. After that I would be able to work with the physiotherapist to regain the muscles' ability to bend the finger actively.
The only costs incurred at the Hand Clinic are for parking (exorbitant: $3.50-$13 each time depending on the length of the visit ... multiply that by 3 and again by the number of weeks of therapy) and for materials used in their therapeutic splints. But I felt as if I were getting excellent care.
In June I had the operation and the following day was back in physio working the finger so that it would not stiffen again. They knew that some scar tissue would re-form but I had to work the tendon through the scar tissue or I would be back to square one again.
That began more months of physio.
I have one more appointment with the plastic surgeon at the end of March. I have been told that the only way to make the finger align properly with the rest of the fingers would be to have a third surgery and go through another year of physio and recovery. I can't face that so I have decided to live with the mess made by the incompetence of the Hull Hospital's orthopaedic surgeon.
I am resigned, but I am angry still. It has cost me a great deal of money, time and pain, and it need not have happened if it had been treated properly at first.
Why didn't I take legal action? I was told by an Ontario lawyer specializing in such cases that she knew of no one who could take on a case in the Outaouais; that I would have find a lawyer in Montreal. I had enough to deal with without that. I was homeless, I was in pain, and I was investing hours daily in regaining any use of that hand.
The photos were taken 16 months after the accident; after 12 months of physio and 2 operations. My hand looks odd ... but I am not concerned about that. What does concern me is the fact that my right hand does not perform properly. The baby finger acts like a gate when you make a basket. Mine allows things to escape. There are other things but generally they surprise me when they happen, reminding me that I am no longer completely whole or competent.
Like most people in Western Quebec I would not go to a hospital in the Outaouais if I had a choice.
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