Look, this wasn’t some spectacular car crash or anything – I stepped off a ladder wrong. I mean, it doesn’t even qualify as a fall as far as I’m concerned. The ladder itself didn’t even budge. It won’t make the newspaper or Reddit or anything. Nevertheless, the actions and care given by the ambulance workers and hospital staff deserve to be remembered.

20 minutes after I called 911, the paramedics arrived. They found me prone, next to my apple tree, in what probably looked like a reasonably calm but distressed state. I was cold and struggled a little bit to answer their first few questions. After checking me over and assessing my injury, they offered laughing gas. I don’t know why I turned it down, but I did. Getting on the stretcher was an ordeal – at 190 lbs, they decided not to try lifting me. Briefly, they thought about pulling me up on my good leg but almost instantly, my bad knee vetoed that idea. In the end, I suggested they lower the stretcher so I could press myself up and shimmy onto it. Easy peasy – thanks to all the triceps work I do.

The ambulance ride was short – the hospital is only 10 minutes from my house. On the way, vitals were going to be taken, but the blood pressure cuff didn’t work, nor did the blood oxygen monitor. I don’t think it mattered in the end.

Entering the emergency ward was captivating. It was a relatively small, hectic space and very plain. Patients everywhere: some on stretchers, some seated. Most were elderly. Several appeared oblivious to their situations. A couple of them were asleep. One of the more lucid seniors had dried blood all over the back of his head but could carry a conversation and had the wherewithal to bring a book with him to pass the time. It was straight out of a hospital show- maybe a bit more hectic even. Pairs of paramedics scurried everywhere, tending to their deliveries, filling out forms or sanitizing their gurneys. Nurses darted around. A stately triage nurse, who I came to believe was the head honcho, carefully and purposefully walked the room, ushering people here and there. She had a make-shift desk around a corner that all the paramedics checked in with. Mine whispered that she was a hard ass.

One of my paramedics stayed with me long enough to wheel me from the check-in area to x-rays, where he bid me farewell. That probably saved me from waiting long, and I was immensely grateful.

Not long after, I was wheeled to the Cast Room, which, I was told, was in the vicinity of where Orthos (orthopaedic doctors) could look at me. In fact, I was parked outside of the room, with a view of a doctors station and, further on, the back of the nurses’ desk at the emergency waiting room. It was fun to watch the action. Doctors voice-recording their notes; shift change; nurses managing emergency room visitors. I never went in a room at all, actually, but was terrifically well-tended to by nurses and a doctor in the hallway over the proceeding two hours.

The goal was to get an ultrasound right away, but it seemed amidst the shift change that we missed our window. So I was given a leg brace, some ‘hospital pajamas’ (with one leg cut off) and a handful of potent opioids, and told to expect a call for imaging and a surgical consult the next day.

From start to finish, my experience receiving emergency care lasted four hours. I left thankful and appreciative.

The next day, at 7:34 AM the hospital called to bring me in for an ultrasound. It was a far more typical experience – take a number, wait ten minutes, go in the room. My technician was younger (aren’t they all these days?) and I could tell she wasn’t familiar with what she was looking for. “Any babies?” I said. “Twins” she retorted. Touché.

I politely asked if she could describe anything she was noticing, and she said she couldn’t comment, but was struggling to find what she needed. She left the room to fetch a doctor. He came in a few minutes later, took the probe and the gel, and began scanning my knee again. “Well, you see, his patellar is way up there.” Huh, I thought. That can’t be good.

I asked him what he was seeing. He said patellar tear. I mentioned that the ER nurses suspected a kneecap dislocation and he said no, but it had moved, because when the patellar detaches, the quadriceps muscle pulls the kneecap up. Sorry, too much info?

He was kind enough to carry on: the scans would dictate whether there was enough patellar for a straightforward surgery, or if a graft would be needed. And that the surgery would most likely happen soon, since waiting too long would mean scar tissue buildup that would complicate recovery. I told him I was expecting a call from the surgical consult – and not a minute later, my phone rang.

What do you know, but the surgeon on the line said exactly the same thing. So in the space of five minutes, I had a real-time interpretation of an ultrasound, two doctors opinions, and consensus on next steps. Could this get any better?

The only downside, perhaps, is that all this was taking place on a Friday. Which means that today as I write this, it’s Saturday. And we all know service stops on weekends. So I haven’t had a call to schedule surgery yet, and I’m skeptical I will get one tomorrow. I do have some anxiety about addressing the urgency expressed by the two doctors, but I can only trust the system for now, right? It’s served me extraordinarily well so far.

UPDATE: not ten minutes after posting this, at 8:55 PM on a Saturday, the hospital called to confirm my surgery for tomorrow at 1:35 PM (on a Sunday!). Go public healthcare!

Wish me luck!