Norris McDonald is a former Star editor who is a current freelance columnist/contributor.
He recently wrote an article about the need to have complete insurance coverage when you travel.
Drive of lifetime delivers life lesson
TorStar, Dec 14, 2019
Last week, I took part in one of the automotive world’s great adventures. I drove from Chicago, Ill., to Santa Monica, Calif, a distance of 2,448 miles (3,940 kilometres), over a series of highways that once upon a time made up the legendary US. Route 66.
The drive started perfectly, progressed stupendously and then ended, for me, painfully. For everybody else, the finale was wonderful.
Please let me explain.
Nissan Canada had taken upwards of 20 Canadian automotive journalists to Chicago to drive three of the company’s cars — the Kicks SR, the Altima Platinum and the Murano Platinum — to California for two reasons: one, to enjoy a legendary motoring experience and, two, to do in-depth reviews of the three cars while on the road, with a focus on the Pro Pilot Assist driver-aid technology and the company’s Zero Gravity seats.
The trip took seven days and was a fantastic experience. We convoyed through Illinois, stopped overnight in Cuba, Mo., drove on to Tulsa, Okla., went to Amarillo, Texas (George Strait’s rodeo song, “Amarillo By Morning,” never sounded as good), through New Mexico to Albuquerque (the Unser Racing Museum is there), on to Flagstaff, Ariz., then Needles, Calif, and, finally, Mel’s Drive-In at 1670 Lincoln Blvd.
That’s the official end of Route 66, in Santa Monica.
To add to the fun, I sent an email to Phlash Phelps, the ’60s on 6 morning DJ on Sirius. )CM satellite radio, and he gave us a shout-out just about every day as we traced our way westward along what Nobel Prizewinning author John Stein-beck, in his iconic novel “The Grapes of Wrath,” had called the “Mother Road.”
Sometime in the next month, or so, I will write about this adventure at length.
Today, however, I want to tell you about the last day, which turned into a celebration for Nissan, because of a job well done; a day of accomplishment for the reporters, because they now had enough material for several books, never mind a couple of newspaper articles; and a near-disaster for me, because what happened will have a negative effect on my life, albeit short term, as well as my ability to work
There is also a lesson here for anybody planning to travel outside of Canada who’s never faced a medical emergency. It can happen to anybody. At any time. Any minute, in fact. Here is what happened to me, and, thank goodness, I was up to the gills in travel insurance.
We’d just finished dinner. Didier Marsaud, director of corporate communications for Nissan Canada, had distributed certificates congratulating participants on making it to the finish. I was on my way to my room to pack and had to go down a short flight of stairs to get to the elevator. Just before I got to the bottom, I tripped. Just like that. One of those things — but this time I sensed it was going to be serious. Despite my best efforts to regain my balance (translation: flailing wildly in all directions for anything — hell, anybody — to grab onto), I knew I was going down. I put out my right arm to break my fall (I had a shopping bag in the other) and WHAM. The second I landed, I knew I was in trouble.
I was hoping it was just a sprain, but I also knew better. I had to go to a hospital. Melissa Dotey, an account executive with MCI Inc., a firm that handles logistics for Nissan and other companies, offered to accompany me to the infirmary. She was a godsend: calm, cool and collected. It made my visit to the emergency ward much easier than if I had been there by myself.
And she went above and beyond the call of duty; when I asked for a Coca-Cola (you don’t ask for “Coke” in Southern California — it means something else), she left the hospital in search of a bottle with my name on it. The closest she could find was Morris, but it was the thought that counts. I didn’t open it, and it sits today on my mantle beside my prized, unopened bottle of Junior Johnson’s Midnight Moon Moonshine and James Hinchcliffe’s “Hinchtown Hammerdown” Pilsner beer. By the time I was Ubered to the nearby UCLA Santa Monica Hospital Emergency Room, Melissa had been in touch with the insurance company to ensure that I wouldn’t have to take out a second mortgage to
pay for any treatment. Assured that I could relax, she ushered me into the facility where, to be frank, I was treated like a king.
Without going into specifics, Crystal Babikian, who has a lovely smile, greeted me at the door and entered my information into the computer system. Triage nurse Lia Sumpter took down my particulars (old joke) and emergency ward nurses Karrie Chen and Caitlin Larry catered to my every need.
Dr. Joel Sommers — after radiologists Ray Kang, Rich Lagourgue and Allan Innes, who took turns X-raying me, showed him the evidence —broke (pardon the pun) the bad news to me. He never stopped smiling, even as he and nurse George Munoz strung my hand up in chicken wire and hung a weight from my elbow to prepare my arm for splints after the bones were set. He called the contraption “the UCLA medieval torture harness.”
An aside about three of these folks: I have had a ring on my middle finger since 1969. It has never been off because I could never get it off. Dr. Sommers said it had to come off. “Your arm is going to swell, and so will your hand.” Nurse Sumpter got it off, and it didn’t hurt, either. I am a big fan of painless dentists and painless nurses.
She is now No. 1 on my list.
Nurse Larry looks like a California girl, but started life in Toronto. She has dual-citizenship. I asked what had attracted her to California. “The weather,” she said. Dr. Sommers is from Rochester, N.Y., just across Lake Ontario from Toronto. Asked why he chose California, he replied, “Same reason: it’s warmer here.”
That seems to be a theme.
So, Dr. Sommers reset my bones, nurse Munoz applied the splints and I was soon sent on my way, complete with a printout of everything that had been done to me while I was in their care, plus a computer disc of all the X-Rays. Time from admission to discharge: three hours.
Melissa took me back to the hotel and, in the morning, my co-driver on the trip, former Wheels editor Mark Richardson, came to my room to dress me. If you are right-handed, and you break your right wrist, you are up the creek Getting everything off is easy; getting everything on is impossible. Pretend you’re me and try buttoning up your shirt with your left hand. Or tightening your belt. Or putting on your socks. Thank goodness I have Mark for a friend.
(I now have a greater appreciation for what people with disabilities have to go through every day of their lives. I will get better. Maybe they won’t. Something to think about.)
When I left for the airport later that morning, Nissan’s Marsaud was on hand to see me off. As was Melissa, of course. And Jim Robinson of the Mississauga News/Met-roland, Lorraine Sommerfeld of National Post Driving and Lee Bailie of Wheels.ca helped me get checked in, and then on and off the plane.
One last thing. Earlier in the day Saturday, we had stopped at one of the many ghost towns found along Route 66. (The interstate highway system sure did a number on small-town America) I was standing on a gravel shoulder on the side of the road when I looked down and saw something gleam in the sunlight. I picked it up; it was a 1948 American dime.
You know what they say about a lucky penny, don’t you? I thought finding a dime on the side of Route 66 would be at least ten times luckier. But instead of winning the lottery, I wound up in an emergency ward with a broken wrist. I threw away that dime — and if anybody else should find it, I suggest they do too.
Oh, and don’t go anywhere without travel/health insurance.
Anywhere.
Norris McDonald is a former Star editor who is a current freelance columnist.
