A few weeks ago, I was working out at the Cummings Centre gym. I have a great fondness for the Cummings Centre, the Golden Age, as my parents called it, or “Mineh Cloob” as my Bubby called it.
As I walk into the building, I can see the bright red sculpture my great aunt created, still dancing while dusted with spring snow. While on the treadmill, I overlook my childhood backyard and I can see the boarding home for the elderly, where I used to be the house doctor. The gym is adapted and mostly serves people who are poststroke or suffer from other disabilities. I am one of the small number of non-disabled folks to work out there. It fits my personality and level of fitness way better than the other more glamorous and jock-infested places I could go.
After my workout, having been lovingly tortured by my trainer, I was in the gift shop trying to buy my husband some fancy socks and my granddaughter a card for her upcoming Bat Mitzvah. Then I heard a call on the overhead speaker “Medical Emergency, Cafeteria!” I dropped my gifts, unpaid on the counter, and scooted over to the cafeteria where I saw a small group of people around an elderly man.
I introduced myself as Dr. Feldman. The man looked waxy pale, he was sweating and clutching his chest. It did not take an ER doc to figure out what was happening! His wife was next to him wringing her hands and calling his name. There was a social worker and the chief administrator of the centre, standing next to him, calling 911. “Oui, 5700 rue Westbury,” she is saying as I reach the table. Since the Cummings Centre is about three blocks from two different hospitals, I figured the ambulance should be there in a few minutes. I went over to talk to the patient who was breathing heavily as the administrator produced a machine to do vitals. In a few seconds I discovered that he speaks only Russian and a very rudimentary French. The social worker looked at me, “I’ll get Natalya,” she said and ran off. At that point, my husband, Dave called me. He was outside to pick me up. I explained why I couldn’t leave right then, and he agreed to wait until the ambulance gets there.
Using the BP machine in the emergency kit, I found the patient’s pulse was around 50 BPM and his BP was sky high and pulse oximetry was low. “Avez vous une pompe Nitro?” I asked the patient. He pulled an ancient looking Nitro pump from his pocket, the label in Russian. I gave him a pump and in a few minutes his colour improved. “Where is the ambulance? This is way too long.” I looked up and I saw one of my colleagues, Judy, in a hairnet, cap and apron. She volunteers with a social enterprise that employs neurodivergent adults, making food for the cafeteria. “Hey Jude,” I said, surprised. “Glad to see you.” I quickly outlined what was up; glad to have another doctor with me. Now Nataliya, the animator for the Russian circle, has come down to interpret for us. With her help, we found out that the patient, arrived in Canada two years ago from Russia. He had an MI in Russia and may have had stents. At Nataliya’s questioning he produced his pharmacy medication list from his pocket. He started to look sweaty and green again. “Where is that effing ambulance?!” I thought.
Judy put his legs up. We looked at each other and gave him another Nitro. Suddenly Dave called me, “I just saw the ambulance turn the wrong way on Westbury,” he said. The social worker got on the phone to 911. I took a moment to look at his medication list, which was bizarre. There were glaucoma meds. I asked the patient, and found out he is being followed by an ophthalmologist for glaucoma. There were, however, no cardiac drugs. No beta-blocker, no calcium channel blocker, no blood thinners, no Nitro. He has been getting his meds at various walk-in clinics, and there are different vitamin supplements, a statin (at least) and a daily dose of oxazepam. “What is this for?” I asked him. pointing to the prescription.
“That’s my heart medicine,” he replied to me. Meanwhile the social worker was speaking sternly into the phone. “Pas 5400 Westbury, 5700!!”
A minute later, Dave called to tell me that the ambulance was there. The ambulance techs came in, took the notes we had been keeping, wrapped the old man up onto the gurney, thanked us and left.
Judy and I hugged each other. The cafeteria lady offered me a muffin. Nataliya burst into tears. “I am remembering my father!” she said, as we comforted her.
“At least,” I thought as he rolled out the door, “he will be admitted, and his meds will get sorted. This all would have been so much easier if he had a family doctor, and access to translators.”
Suddenly, I was exhausted. I picked up my gym bag, went home and had a nap.
I don’t know which hospital he went to or what happened to him, but I hope he’s OK.