March marked the three-year anniversary of my concussion and a journey that taught me that unless you’re an athlete or have money to go to the US for treatment, you’re on your own.

One year into the pandemic I had cabin fever. There was a fresh blanket of snow and I had seen ski tracks in my local park at Corktown Common. I thought ‘what a great and (COVID) safe idea’. I waxed my cross-country skis and headed over on foot, skis over my shoulder.

Feeling proud of myself after a circuit around the park, a fall left me stunned. How did I end up flat on my back with my toque a foot away in the snow, skis up in the air, parallel to my body? Dazed, I called it a day, gathered my skis and poles to head home, except I was so confused – what was my route to get home? I knew something was wrong, I lived three blocks away, but I put it down to the shock of the fall. Two weeks later, still sore from head to toe but with a strange feeling in my head I walked myself to emerg and said, “I think I have a concussion.” The triage nurse had another idea. It turns out my blood pressure was through the roof, and I was rushed by wheelchair into what is called a major room.

After an array of cardiac monitoring and tests including a CT scan all was pronounced good, well sort of. I did have a concussion. Before I was discharged I asked for the concussion pamphlet that a friend told me the hospital should give me. This request surprised the nurse who had to track it down. I also asked, unsuccessfully, for a referral to a concussion clinic for follow-up.

At home, relieved but scared, I tried to grapple with an array of symptoms I wasn’t used to: light........

© rabble