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Illustration by Drew Shannon
We dubbed ourselves the Eleventh Person Club as we huddled by the door in the drizzle and darkness. All had been brought together by a desperate need for hernia surgery.
My husband couldn’t walk more than a few feet without severe pain. From research online, he determined that the private Shouldice Hospital in Thornhill, Ont., had the best surgical outcomes. But the earliest appointment he could get for an assessment was five months out. Surgery would be another three to four months after that. The wait times elsewhere were just as long. It was unthinkable.
But there was a fast track to relief. Most weeks the Shouldice offered walk-in assessments. The exact days and spots available were posted online the preceding week. From blog posts we learned that you needed to get there a few hours before the clinic opened to successfully nab one of those prized slots.
So, when we noted that 10 were available, we were on the road by 3 a.m. to make the almost two-hour journey from Niagara. We arrived at 4:45 a.m., to find that the 10th person had beat us to the line-up by about five minutes. As we drove back home, too disheartened to even stop for breakfast, our resolve hardened.
A week later we saw our next chance with 10 spots open. Determined to snag one, we landed at the front door by 1:12 a.m. Halleluiah! We were the first. We set up our lawn chairs and, for added warmth, lined them with yoga mats, pulled on our hats and fleece vests, and kept sleeping bags at the ready. Within 10 minutes, we had two new friends, and by 2:30 a.m., five more. By 4 a.m., the final spots were gone. Most of the group told the same story of arriving the prior Wednesday within minutes of the 10th person – and so we became the Eleventh Person Club.
We found consolation in the ancient ritual of sitting in a circle. There was a covered porch that provided respite from the drizzle. It comfortably sheltered eight of us. When the ninth arrived, we ignored the urban Canadian convention of avoiding close contact and scooted our chairs together to make room.
Then came the 10th. “You know,” I said. “We don’t have to stay in a circle. We can fit more people in if we use all the space.” People nodded and ignored me. Instead, they inched their chairs backward into the wet night to create a final precious spot. By now we were a community.
We swapped tales of prior illnesses and shared the scraps of info we had – some factual, some rumoured – about the length of the hospital stay after surgery, the cost, how parking worked and, most importantly, how thin you had to be before surgery. We knew that if the scales tipped too high on the day of, you would be sent home. But what was the target BMI? No one knew, and many fretted.
In between the serious business of hernia repair, we chatted about such weighty topics as the first colour television we’d seen in our youth. One of our crew reminisced about how this situation reminded him of his childhood in a communist regime, where lining up was an everyday experience. He was the only one who’d brought snacks for the group.
Much of the time, we dealt with the dozens of people who came after us. With each arrival, we broke the bad news, offered advice and provided peer support as necessary. The reactions were varied: shock, despair, resignation, even bonhomie. One young woman broke into prolonged hysterical laughter when she heard we’d all been there by 4 a.m.
A complicating factor was that the hospital website had originally posted 20 spots, only to change it to 10 a few days before. As a result, many were disbelieving. One woman glared at us. “You say there’s only 10 spots but I count 11 people here. What’s that about?” I threw my hand in the air, schoolroom style. “I’m the plus one. I’m here as a companion.”
“Oh.” She deflated.
Then, someone to my left whispered, “Oh no.” I looked up. A young man draped in a yellow rain cape and seated in a wheelchair propelled himself up the driveway. The group fell silent under the weight of guilt. If this were a movie, someone would heroically give up their spot. But it wasn’t.
Finally, one spoke. “Umm…all 10 spots are gone.”
“Okay,” he said and wheeled around.
At last, morning came. A security guard opened the door at 7, and everyone rushed in. I ferried our gear back to the car before joining them in the waiting room. It was spacious and could accommodate 40 people on more gracious living room furniture than I’d ever owned. But I was taken aback. My former comrades were scattered across the space, no longer a group, but 10 individuals isolated in their islands of concern. Such is the power of context – waiting rooms, even lovely ones, can be lonesome places.
I would have none of it.
“Congratulations, everyone! You made it!” Exhausted faces lit up and broke into grins, and several applauded.
Kathy Belicki lives in Virgil, Ont.