Michael Moore is misinformed, if not flat-out full of feces

I don’t like the way Michael Moore plays loose with the facts in his films,

but until yesterday I didn’t have any real beef with him.  In “Sicko”, Moore

all but canonized the Canadian health care system.  I had no personal com-

plaints about it till I required surgery for the severed artery in my hand.

Jude and I drove to the mainland, then 90 miles more for my referral to a

plastic surgeon.  He told me not to eat or drink anything after midnight so

I would be ready for surgery if necessary.  I saw him about noon, stomach

empty and chin bare for a better fitting oxygen mask.  I had had trouble

keeping a mask over my beard during the original stitch-up.

He told us that I would indeed need surgery, but all operating rooms were

booked for the day.  Report to the surgical ward at the hospital tomorrow

at 8 am sharp, and, again, no intake after midnight.

No problem.  Jude and I headed straight to a restaurant and feasted.  Then

we found a motel near the hospital, napped and went back out for more

feasting.  We struck the mother lode: a Quizno’s sandwich shop next to a

Tim Horton’s.  Tim’s is where Canadians go for all their donut needs.  What

I couldn’t eat immediately back at the motel, I finished off just before mid-

night.  I then sank into carbohydrate-based dreams.

When we got to the hospital yesterday morning, we were told that I was

tentatively scheduled for noonish.  It was “ish” because my surgery was

non-emergency.  Someone with an urgent condition could bump me.

I was ailing stand-by.

Jude and I were stuck in a little room just off the nurses’ station.  It con-

tained a copy machine, chair, loveseat and “People” magazines.  I tried

to sleep on the loveseat and Jude tried to enjoy the “People”.  About 1

pm, we were told that I had been bumped by an appendicitis, presum-

ably attached to someone.  I was feeling queazy, so Jude scored me an IV.

It took the nurse three pokes to find a vein because of my dehydration.

When I rehydrated enough to have to pee, I was shown to a patient’s room,

where Jude, the IV pole and I had to crowd into a small loo — much to our

embarrasment and the annoyance of the patient and his visitors.

We got bumped a second time around 3 pm.  I considered opening my robe

and gown to show my black skivvies to all the folks going past the nurses’

station.  I thought that might get us out of there sooner.  Then Jude pointed

out that the hospital was run by the same agency that employed her.  Again

with the facts.

After one more bump, we started worrying that we might have to stay another

night.  Our friend Lee was watching the pets, the fire, the micro-hydro system

and our beer supply, so we were okay there.  But we only had the clothes we

were wearing, and didn’t want to get any riper.  (This taught me, by the way,

that if you don’t have clean underwear, black underwear is the next best

thing.)

Fortunately they squeezed me in at 5 pm.  “Squeezed in” isn’t really accurate,

though.  As far as I could tell, there was only one operating room in use on the

entire floor.  Many seemed to be empty.  My anger and frustration was eased

by the professionalism of the surgical team.  I talked politics and skin diving

with one of them, and asked another if they played tunes during the operation.

When she said yes, I requested Led Zeppelin.  She smiled and agreed, but how

would I know?

I woke up about two hours later.  It was like a scene in a movie where a character

is bobbing below and above water: sharp noise, then muffled sounds, then repeat.

I felt quite good and we made it home by midnight.  As a final complication to

our day, we hit a substantial snowfall when we got back on the island.  Jude had

to wrestle the chains on our tires by herself.  She’s a keeper, that one.