Medical Emergency

Ever been caught in a subway delay? It’s one thing to be waiting for the next train—which seemingly can take an eternity, depending on the severity of the reason for the delay—and another thing entirely to be at the delay’s epicenter.

Delays are usually grouped into one of three categories: a security situation, mechanical malfunction or medical emergency. Mechanical failures are probably the most common and least interesting, while security situations are likely least common and most interesting. It could be a fire or a crime or—an increasingly worrisome possibility today—terrorism, which is like a crime on steroids.

Medical emergencies fall somewhere in between. The overhead announcement never specifies what the medical emergency is, so one is always left to wonder, and one always does. It’s the equivalent of mental rubbernecking. Is it a heart attack, or a seizure, or maybe someone just suddenly collapsed while reading their Metro newspaper or that Trebas Institute poster? Heck, on more than one occasion I’ve found out after the fact that the reason for the delay was a jumper. Yes, an attempted suicide. Grim, perhaps, but apparently not important, at least not to those stuck in the delay. Imagine all those folks stranded in the station—or worse, between stations—grumbling about the wait, that they have to be somewhere; and all the while, somewhere up ahead someone is suffering indescribable pain, perhaps clinging to life. Such inconvenience!

Anyway, I’d never been at the epicenter of a subway delay, until today. On my way home from work I arrived at York Mills station and descended to the subway platform, only to discover the subway in a holding pattern. No one getting on or off, TTC personnel attending to a passenger in the first car, mere steps from me. Without properly assessing the situation, I’d tried to get on that first car, and one of the TTC guys pleasantly but firmly motioned me to stay off the train. Well, I thought, isn’t this inconvenient. All I could see through the subway window was an older woman in some apparent distress, and someone else standing beside her, rubbing her (the older woman’s) head. An overhead announcement declared that the Line 1 northbound subway would be delayed at York Mills Station due to a medical emergency, and that shuttle buses were being deployed.

While debating whether to wait it out or head above ground and try to catch a shuttle bus, I saw paramedics wheel an empty stretcher onto the subway car. That’s when I noticed all the people that had gathered to stare at the situation on the train. People were getting off the subway and coming up to the front car to gather round the window. Others were simply moving forward on the train to get a better vantage point. Even people from the southbound side of the platform were wandering over to watch. Typical of this voyeuristic society, eh? Everyone at home watching their TV’s and computer screens, and now they're happy to watch another spectacle here at York Mills station. I’m surprised I saw no one whip out a phone and start filming. Doesn’t mean no one did.

It didn’t take the paramedics long to get the passenger onto the stretcher. I saw a couple cops who’d obviously showed up out of nowhere, doing crowd control on the train. The mass of passengers continued to crowd forward to catch a glimpse of the passenger in distress, their eyes like tongues licking every last bit of salty sauce from the dish.

Presently, the paramedics wheeled the sick passenger off the train. I saw her lolling on the stretcher. Her arm fell out of the strap. Her eyes were rolled back and glazed a thick milky colour. Had she suffered a stroke? To me, she looked dead. I work in a hospital, so I see this stuff every day. To me, it wasn’t some neat novelty or some crazy, cool thing to stop and stare at. If the person was indeed dead, it seemed to be an expected kind of dead, since the accompanying person maintained a calm demeanour and showed no visible distress. Perhaps she was a care worker.

Once the stretcher had left the scene, the crowd on the platform immediately surged back onto the train. I shrugged and followed. Moments later came an announcement overhead that the delay at York Mills station had been resolved. Business returned to normal. It was as though nothing had happened.

Back on the subway, I noticed the abandoned, personal mobility scooter on the other side of the car. The paramedics had obviously removed the sick passenger from it and left it behind, an eerie reminder of the suddenness of tragedy for all the remaining passengers to see. Before the subway doors closed, a TTC employee got on the train. As we left York Mills station, he stood, swaying with the rest of us. Perhaps he was there to accompany the empty scooter.

At Sheppard station, someone leaned through the open door and asked, What happened? What was the delay? The TTC employee said in accented English, Someone had accident, maybe heart attack. Before the doors closed, the inquisitive person—who didn’t get on the train—nodded and said, Oohhhh, as though a great mystery had been solved. And that would’ve been the end of it for everyone, except for the empty scooter that swayed with the rest of us.

Tragedy can be so personal yet so impersonal at the same time. It always seems to happen to someone else, except when it doesn’t. And that someone else is usually out of sight and out of mind, except when she’s right in front of you. What’s perhaps most disturbing is that, no matter its cause, the tragedy in question grossly inconveniences everyone involved. Of course there’s the victim. But don’t forget the victim’s unseen, fellow subway passengers, who feel even more inconvenienced, because they’re forced to wait for the situation to be resolved.

The interesting thing, though, is that the closer one is to the tragedy’s epicenter, the less that time seems to drag. Why? Because we at the epicenter have an opportunity to gawk, to try to get a good look at the unfolding scene, to lap up all the details of this novelty, this spectacle, this terrible thing happening to someone else, to someone else’s family member or friend or lover. Or maybe we gawkers are simply wondering with muted fright if this is what our own personal tragedy might one day look like.

For what it’s worth, I hope the passenger in distress is all right.