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Bits and Pieces

by Barrie Hopkins




Tylenol kick

When I awoke this past morning, the sky was in heavy overcast.

It matched my mood completely. If you are going to ask why Barrie is in such a bad mood, don’t ask, ‘cause I’m a gonna tell you the why, when, where and the what-for anyway. I’ll spill it all - here it comes!

When I moved to cattle/cottage country up in the boondocks west of Markdale, doctors were in short supply. My existing longtime doctor in Fergus, though slightly younger than me, had retired due to the creeping of age.

I was left dangling like a fishing hook on a telephone wire at a country bridge. Finally, a young doctor who had accepted previously my son’s family, slipped me in. His office is in Collingwood, an hour’s drive in the direction of the sun coming up.

My plumber (urologist/prostrate specialist) whose office is in Guelph, practices one day a week in Walkerton, an hour’s drive in the direction of sunsets. But here lies the problem: due to an almost tumble and my inability to skate on the kitchen floor, I developed a sore, sorer and sorer lower back pain and was directed to my general practitioner in Collingwood.

Some idiot, and I’ll not detail, dropped an egg on the kitchen floor, cleaned up the yolk and shell, leaving the splashed egg white to fend for itself. Needless to say, my legs split asunder, one this way, one obviously that. In order to not fall, filled with the fear of breaking old man bones, my elbow grappled the edge of the sink. A mammoth black and blue mark lasted well more than a week, but with unknown contortionists attraction, contractions, I managed to stay on my feet.

On careful and thorough consultation, an x-ray was recommended, and he would have a front desk nurse fax the requisition that very same Thursday morning to a hospital that was nearer to me, with a further comment that they, the close-to-home hospital, would contact me when they were able to do it. In additional conversation, he stated that our local drugstore would be faxed with a prescription for Tylenol 3, a stronger-than-over-the-counter pain killer to be delivered to my house that very same day. Somewhere, somehow, someplace, betwixt and between, somewhere ells, the proverbial excrement hit the whirling communication fan. Nothing, and I repeat, nothing seemed to happen!

The next morning, on calling, I found out that sorry, sorry, sorry does not alleviate any pain. They, the pills, the prescription of which we received, will definitely be delivered to you this Friday afternoon. Saturday morning found me on the phone still wondering were the hell my pills are and begging the pharmacist, as they have no weekend deliveries, to send the girl on the front desk and please, please, please deliver them to me. I thanked my God that they did!

Mid-Friday afternoon, on inquiry as to when my x-ray was to take place, I was informed that I should have called earlier. The technicians had now gone home, as no x-rays were scheduled, and none were done on the weekends. Tylenol 3 here I come, again and again and again.

Finally, finally, finally, the weekend had passed and I was booked for an appointment Tuesday afternoon. I flinched at the timing, as I was to get a blood test as well while in the hospital. No problem, no problem, you can get it done, too. When asked why the sign on the door reads “Lab open only until noon,” the reply came back, “Let me check that out for you.”

With an appropriate ticking of the clock, the answer came back, “You are right. How does 11am sound to you? I will check it out with the radiologist, in yet another hospital in Owen Sound. If it is not okay, I’ll call you back. It may take up to three days for the answer.”

Wham! Wham!  Wham! That statement hit me like a triple lead brick. Why in Tar-nation, or any nation other than Tar, technical or otherwise, would anyone need a CEO, or whatever they call themselves, anywhere, anyplace, anytime, and for what Kathleen Wynne reason?

These people are not voted to office. They are simply Sunshine-listed, self-appointed by “you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours,” employees who have weaseled themselves, by excessive bull, into robbing the taxpayers’ wallets, through government-created jobs, lacking justification anyplace, anytime, wherever, at all.

Whether it be the auto industry, manufacturing, technology, hospitals, whatever, whenever, wherever, with neither rhyme, rhythm, reason, nor ritual for being, they are there leaching from the very depths of the taxpayers’ pockets, shunting many economies to a standstill, more often up the proverbial river, without a paddle, in a handbasket more fragile than that made of wicker.

Take care, ‘cause we care.

Barrie@barriehopkins.ca

519-986-4105

 

 

Vol 49 Issue 29

 
 

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Community Guide Fall 2017

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Barrie Hopkins
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