Swept from the corners of my mind…
“Everything happens for a reason” they tell me. I don’t agree.
“Coincidence is not Causation” is more my slogan. But sometimes, I wonder. For instance, there was this series of events….
I was in training in Saskatoon. The hotel was downtown; the course site a five-minute drive north (if you happen to miss rush hour). It was day two of a three-day conference and I was listening intently to the presenter while checking work emails and the occasional bout of Facebook (don’t judge, haha). At 1:30 I noticed that my boss had called my office and left a message on the system. An hour later my mom called my cell. At 3:30 I noticed that there was a notification of an 8 a.m. conference call with the other members of my unit, and some Higher Ups, but my boss was not on the list. Hmmmm…
At the end of the day, I decided to stay in the parking lot and return calls before heading back to the hotel. I first called Mom–my sister-in-law’s dad had passed away that afternoon. Mom had walked into his hospital room about ten minutes after it happened. I had known Dave for over 40 years, as my sister-in-law and I had been close friends long before she married my brother. I had spent time in their home during our teens, and can never forget this passionate family man, much beloved by his wife and children. We discussed his illness and the family’s grief before saying our goodbyes.
Distracted by the sad news, I didn’t notice traffic increasing as the supper hour neared. The boss’ call had been about a simple, but time-sensitive, matter. I decided to try her cell. When she answered she told me that she had been fired. I was saddened. I had learned to depend upon her support and viewpoint in the past four years and tried to return some of that support as we discussed how she was feeling.
A trooper, she was already seeing the bright side but was still shaken. We must have chatted for three quarters of an hour before I wished her the best and signed off.
Shaken, I decided to go back to the hotel. Unfortunately, I had to cross two lanes of traffic to get out of the parking lot. It was full-on rush hour and there were no openings in the flow of hungry commuters. After several abortive tries I chose an alternate route, turning east instead of west. Then traffic snarled and I ended up taking a wrong turn. And another. And another. Half an hour later I was far enough out of traffic to look around for a place to turn around and try again.
I spotted a convenience store in the gloom of the setting winter sun. I pulled in to grab some evening supplies and looked with grudging admiration at the diminutive fry cook taking a break just outside the main door. The wind was frigid, straight from the frozen tundra, and cut through my coat right into my soul. I hoped the parka this small person was wearing over his apron, above his heavy boots, was sufficient to the task. Even though he had on gloves, and had his toque pulled low, he was visibly shivering as I approached. ‘Tough guy, to take a break outdoors in this wind’, I thought.
Getting closer I noticed the mask was a surgical one and revised my opinion. ‘Maybe that’s an Asian university student,’ I thought. ‘They often wear masks in the winter when they study here.’ Large, friendly brown eyes met mine as I neared enough to realize that what I thought was an apron was a hospital gown, and that the gloves were latex. This was no cook, or student. “Everything ok here?” I asked the small, shivering woman seated on the concrete step.
“They gave me the patch, but I just needed a smoke so bad, you know? So, I came here to get one,” replied a soft, friendly voice in a northern Saskatchewan accent.
“Uh, you walked out of the hospital?” There was one about five blocks away. “Did you have your smoke yet?”
“Not yet. I’ve almost got enough money for a pack now, though,” she shivered in a sweet voice. Not begging. Not hinting. Just answering my question.
“Listen, if I buy you a pack” (now was not the time for a lifestyle lecture!) “Can I give you a ride back to the hospital? You don’t look like you’re feeling very well.”
“Well, sure. Thanks!” She settled back, quivering, as I approached the door.
“Come in with me. You’re shivering!” I opened the door and stood aside for her to proceed me.
“Yeah, they said I had a high fever.”
As we waited in line I looked again at the mask and gloves and thought to ask, “Are you infectious?”
“They don’t know. They don’t think its pneumonia, like last time, but they’re not sure. I’m on antibiotics, see? I’m pretty sick, they said.” She showed me the IV needle still in her forearm. Pulling her sleeve back down she commented that she didn’t think much of the nicotine patch and was looking forward to a real smoke.
“You do know you have to take the patch off before you smoke, right? It can make you really sick if you smoke with a patch on.” She hadn’t known that, and we discussed the side-effects and uses of the patch as we made our purchase and faced the biting breeze in the walk across the snowy lot to my bright orange jeep. Praying that any germs she may leave behind would die in the overnight cold, I got her into the car and asked directions to the hospital. That was my next surprise.
This tiny little woman, no more than about five feet tall, sick enough to have an IV needle still in her arm, had not walked out of the nearby hospital, but the teaching hospital across the wide Saskatchewan River instead. She had walked over half a mile, crossing the high, exposed traffic bridge in biting cold in her weakened condition, with the nebulous hope that there was a real cigarette on the other side. We headed back over the bridge, heater blasting, chatting idly.
Her name was Sherri. She was originally from Saskatoon, but had lived across Canada, and loved Toronto. She’d ended up in emergency at 1 a.m., not breathing, but they’d “got her going” again before morning. Ordinary conversation that belied the oddity of our chance meeting and travel.
As we pulled up to the hospital I asked where to drop her off, and she directed me into the ambulance bay. “Can I get out of there if I go in? Isn’t it just for ambulances?”
“No.” She was confident. Pointing to the giant roll-up doors at the far end of the bays, she added, “If you go right up to those doors they’ll open for you. Well, thanks.” She hopped out and walked into the emergency ward as I bemusedly made sure she made it inside the doors without collapsing or wandering off.
That was when I discovered that the bay doors wouldn’t open for my car. And that there was a very large ambulance pulling in beside me in the second bay. And that it would be a good idea to get out of there.
With a chagrined shake of my head, I turned my hard-to-forget mandarin-colored car around inside the large bay, avoiding the eyes of the ambulance driver, drove the wrong way down the ambulance ramp, and headed back to the hotel without further incident.
Cathy Bendle finds humor in the quirks of everyday life, from training teachers to dodging housework. When not writing, she’s either laughing at her pets, frantically Googling for her work assignments, or playing on her iPad. Her column appears every other Wednesday.
