By Jane La Mantia de Pencier

It was just one of those things. My 11 year old was watching a show that might have been called How to Blow things UP! It’s a big favourite in this house. He and his brother get immense pleasure out of watching the destruction. I find when they are engaged in this pastime it’s a great opportunity to give them a kiss on the cheek.

So, the younger of the two was studying the insertion of electronic fuses. He had a ten pound weight sitting on his lap and I knew he’d been doing a few curls. He was all relaxed after a long tiring day of play. I leaned over to press my nose right into his face. He bent his elbow, and with all of his might, curled that heavy green dumbbell.

Yep.

There was a great crackling crunch. I took it right on the side of my nose. I covered my nose and bent double.

“Ohhh”

“Sorry ! Sorry ! Sorry!

“Ah..”

“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry. “It’s not your fault.”

...(gasp...)

“..get Dad.”

“Dad! Dad! I hit Mum in the nose!”

Is she hurt?

(pause)

“Dad, you better come!”

I clutched at my enlargening proboscis.”

“Sorry. Sorry.”

“It’s OK. It’s OK. It just hurts a bit.”

My other child came into the room. My husband thundered up the stairs.

“What happen,” he asked?

“I hit Mum.”

(...gasp ..I breathed rocking on the edge of the bed holding my face and trying to contain myself.)

“I think it’s broken.”

I report to my husband. The sound of that crack was just too telling.

“Oh sorry, Mum! Sorry.”

“Don’t worry. It’s a big target.”

The kids laugh. I don’t want the little fellah to feel too bad, especially if the outcome is serious.

“It’s a big target. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

I have a large and somewhat legendary nose.

“I’m getting ice.” My husband is an expert icer and runs and collects a bag for my increasing schnoz. He returns and mercilessly instructs me to apply the cold stuff. He looks at me. Ok guys. You’re on your own. I’m taking Mum to the hospital. We’ve got the phone. Call us if you need us.

We get into the car and discover we’re out of gas.

“Keep the ice on it,” he cruelly instructs!

He fills the car and I lean back with ice on my nose. There is no blood, and we begin to wonder if we’ve overreacted. I realize we’ll get to the hospital and wait 5 hours and there’ll be nothing to be done there. We’re not really sure though. Maybe if you get there before the swelling they can straighten it. It wasn’t really crooked but I could tell it wasn’t quite right. As well, there was a big dent on the side.

We continue to drive toward the hospital. I was thinking it over. If I ever go for medical treatment I feel the need for my malady to be obvious. I don’t want to seem like a whiner.

“Naw. Let’s go home. We’ll just get a resident who doesn’t know what to do,” I say.

My husband reprimands me for my arrogance.

“They’ll know more than us!”

“Naw. The kids will stay up late and they’ve got a big day tomorrow. “

I explain about school and the swim practices, squash games and hockey game followed by important timed competitions the next day. It sure was sore, though.

“They won’t be able to function if we don’t get them to bed.”

My husband pulls over and examines my face.

“ It doesn’t look crooked.”

“If they don’t get enough sleep, they’ll get in trouble at school.”

I knew that there was a big crack and I knew it was a significant injury. I just didn’t think that there’d be much help in an emergency room. I also didn’t want to overfuss. So we went home. The kids were disappointed that we were back so fast. They’d planned an evening of celebration without us, involving snacks in front of the tv and the watching of non-approved shows. They thought we’d been to the hospital, treated and returned.

“So how is it Mum?”

Sorry, Mum. Oh, I feel so bad.”

There was much laughter over the walloping of Mum’s big honker. They practically bounced with amusement.

I called my doctor’s office today. They said there is nothing to be done until the swelling goes down. It takes a long time to get an appointment with my doctor. So, it seems ideally I would have been seen before the swelling was up. I realized what I wanted last night was a health advisor. I wanted to call someone who knew the system. I wanted to call someone that I had a relationship with, who knew my health history, who would have a sense how I react to situations and who could advise me on whether I should have gone to the Emerg, whether I should try to book with my doctor today, who can advise me on how to use the system more effectively.

I considered twittering or making some sort of social media noise but I just didn’t want to make that sort of noise. I didn’t want an impersonal telephone service either. I considered calling one of my friend doctors, but I hate to bother them. No, I think the time has come for a whole new profession. It is the role of Healthcare Advisor.

Each person could seek out a professional relationship with their Healthcare Advisor. I suppose this could be a commercial service, but ideally, in a civilized world it would be a new profession under the government package of healthcare. In times past this was perhaps, part of what a General Pracitioner would do. That person would act as a sort of general contractor and rather renovating a kitchen this person would help us determine what sort of specialists is required for a particular structural malady of the body. I think GPs are too busy for this role, and they certainly don’t want off hour phone calls. GPs work behind a phalanx of receptionists, clerks and nurses. It’s hard to get at them. Often our questions require timely answers. Often it takes some time to get into a GP.

The Healthcare Advisor would decide how many patients make sense for them to handle and they’d cap their practise. I want a healthcare advisor, who knows me, who I can call and ask:

“I’ve just been walloped on the nose with a big barbell. I heard a massive crackle. There’s a big dent. What do I do, and how soon do I need to do it?”

Copyright Jane La Mantia de Pencier, 2010