“Your grandma has been hospitalized since yesterday. I wanted you to know that. She is not well.
– Ah okay. Thank you dad. And how are you ? »
As our conversation progressed, I would learn that after discovering the trash can filled with three boxes of saliva-soaked tissues and food, Dad decided that something was seriously wrong with Grandma Ida and that she had to therefore be seen quickly by a doctor.
Grandma just turned 93, less than three weeks ago. Since then, she has only lost weight. She went from 115 pounds to 90 in less than a month, with no attendant or employee at the reception center where she lives even trying to figure out why Ida is not eating anymore.
Admittedly, the decision to call an ambulance was not easy for her son. But the 12 hours of waiting that will follow will not be pleasant either.
Despite her arrival by ambulance at the beginning of the afternoon, Ida was seated, very square, in a wheelchair at the back of a brand new waiting room, completely empty of employees. Because we are here in the small town of a “remote region” of Quebec. And here, nobody wants to come to work.
Ida will spend eight long hours like this, seated, caressed by the icy air which freezes her tiny little body under the worried gaze of her impotent son.
By 9:00 p.m., Ida will be several hours past her bedtime and will struggle to stay awake. My father will then take his courage in both hands to go in search of a nurse. It won’t be easy. Since the renovations of the old hospital, we no longer have such easy access to staff. Once registered, the “user” waits alone and isolated in a large, bright, cold and empty waiting room.
With the help of the security guard, he will eventually manage to spot a nurse. Despite his shyness, Dad will explain the following: “Listen, madam, my mother is 93 years old and she has spent the last eight hours sitting still in the back there. She is crumbling with fatigue. Could we put her down? »
“You know sir, interrupted the valiant nurse wanting to do well, you should take her home and come back to the emergency room tomorrow morning. »
Misery. The idea was nothing to cheer about. Because my father is well aware of the reputation of this hospital center in this beautiful region so far away. Here, expectation is normal. Nothing will be different tomorrow, you might as well make the decision to persevere and not leave the “emergency”. His mother, after all, is not well at all. So they will wait side by side for the hours it takes to see a doctor.
It is then that midnight will come.
As of 9 p.m., Ida is now lying on a stretcher in the hallway. She can somehow close her eyes and doze off. In front of the determination of the son, the devoted nurse will have indeed found a small bed for Ida.
Three hours will pass like this until the sweet nurse comes back to see my father to explain to him that everything he had done until then had to be started over.
“Sir, it’s midnight, your ER registration is no longer valid. You need to register M againme Ida to the emergency room.
– Oh good ? »
And again: registration, small stamped health insurance card and passage to “triage”.
Exasperated and disappointed, my shy dad will venture again to ask for clarification: “How do you proceed to prioritize users by means of said “triage”, Madam? And the helpful nurse explained: “We try to put the elderly and babies first. »
It was then that my father, in disbelief, turned to scan the room with his gaze, meeting that of the only other person present in the waiting room that day, who had also been sitting there for 10 long hours, a young mother of a baby a few months old, also sick.
“And madam, tell me, your bosses consider this sorting a success? he dares to ask.
But the nurse won’t provide any more answers.
Then comes 1 a.m.
The son is hungry and he too is crumbling with fatigue, but he is determined to stay, sitting on his little chair alongside his frail, exhausted mother, who turns out to be much weaker than when she arrived after this unreasonable wait. . At each period of awakening or startle, Grandma will scan the surroundings to systematically ask: “Where are we here? What am I doing here ? “And his son to answer for the umpteenth time without getting impatient: “At the hospital, mom, you are sick. It’s correct. »
Then, 2 a.m. will arrive and, with them, a young doctor.
Obviously, Ida is really not well, she will confirm. She will therefore be hospitalized to try to find the source of her ailments.
The son will remain at his mother’s side until she is lying in her room where another patient is already moaning. He will finally leave the hospital center to travel the 50 kilometers that separate his home from the hospital, in the dark, without ever having eaten, and dead of fatigue.
Because, yes, it is possible to live in an even more isolated sector, in these beautiful and precious “remote regions” of Quebec. It is vast, our province.
It’s my aunt who will take over since my father, after having had supper and taking his shower, will have gone to bed around 4 o’clock in the morning.
Slipping under the sheets that evening, the exhausted son will nevertheless wonder why.
Why doesn’t calling the ambulance ensure that a 93-year-old person, with a loss of autonomy and weakened, is taken care of quickly?
Why, too, renovate such a hospital when it remains empty of doctors, nurses, anesthesiologists and obstetricians? Because pregnant women in our country have to be transferred almost two hours away from their hospital to give birth, for lack of professionals on site.
Does settling or choosing to live in a “remote region” of Quebec immediately mean resigning oneself to not receiving the required health care? Is it normal to have to choose between dying or moving to “Mouriale” to receive adequate care?
These are all questions that we have been raising for a long time without our dear politicians proposing concrete solutions or even deigning to talk about our reality… except during the pre-election period!