Oilfield trucks had splattered thick mud on the busy two-lane road, transforming it into a deadly obstacle course.

    Suddenly, the weather changed. The sky darkened and it began to rain. That made the “Highway of Death” even more treacherous.

     About 40 kilometres south of Fort Mac, tragedy struck … and so began a journey through Hell.

     [Click on the photo to enlarge. Caution: Some images are graphic.]

A PEACEFUL RIDE TURNS UGLY

    I was riding my motorcycle up a slight incline when I spotted something on the road ahead. At first, I thought it was a skid mark — but it was a huge piece of lumber. Turns out, there was lumber scattered all over on the road, likely the result of someone not securing their load properly.

    I tried to brake but it was too late, and I slammed into a piece of wood. My front tire exploded, causing the bike to slide. Another piece of lumber struck my leg, sending me flying off my bike and onto the pavement. Luckily, I was wearing protective gear, so I avoided road rash.

    Braking did not help; it only made things worse. Another rider drove over me and plowed into the ditch. He sustained minor injuries, but I wasn’t as fortunate.

     The call went out for an ambulance. I lay on the road in the rain, badly injured, shivering from the cold, as someone talked to me while we waited for help to arrive. It took an hour and a half for the ambulance to reach us. I remember everything until the ambulance pulled up, then I woke up in a modern hospital in Fort McMurray.

   Hospital staff cleaned me up and put my leg together temporarily until I could be transferred to a major hospital in Edmonton.

LUCKY TO BE ALIVE

   My left fibula, tibia, and two ribs were broken. I also had a punctured lung, shattered pelvis, broken sacrum, fractured pubic bone, broken right foot, and five fractured vertebrae. On a positive note, I was lucky to be alive.

    Care at the hospital in Fort Mac was excellent. I was told I’d be in a clean environment before being shipped out for surgery in Edmonton. Only after I arrived at the Royal Alexandra Hospital in Alberta’s capital did I understand why I had been cautioned. They knew where I was headed.

     Two weeks later, I was transported by ambulance to the airport, just outside of town. The ambulance was driven by firefighters but because they weren’t paramedics [and therefore not certified to administer painkillers], the ride was excruciating, I felt every crack on the road. By the time I reached the airport, I was soaked in sweat from the pain.

     My gurney was transferred to the aircraft and connected securily to a track. Attendants tied my leg to the wall of the plane to prevent it from flopping off the stretcher. To keep my upper body from doing the same, I held onto the shoulder of a paramedic.

     I was finally given painkillers. Fentanyl was offered immediately, and I accepted it without hesitation.

      I arrived at the Edmonton Airport and was transported by ambulance to the Royal Alexandra Hospital in the north-central part of the city. I was admitted to its Intensive Care Unit [ICU] where I went 13 hours without additional painkillers, pushing my call button and screaming until the day shift arrived. My pelvis was rubbing on the nerve ends at the base of my spine and the pain was unbearable. It was called “ICU,” but no one was seeing me. Five other patients in the unit had to listen to me screaming and moaning all night.

     This was my first taste of hospital care at one of Edmonton’s major hospitals. Eventually, I was given Dilaudid, a brand name for hydromorphone, a powerful opioid pain medication. Dilaudid is much stronger than morphine. The drug brought much needed relief.

    My left leg was broken and put back together with a metal rod to keep the bone straight until it healed. The rod was installed through the top of my knee.

    Two weeks later, it was time for pelvis surgery. A plate was put in at the front of my pelvis to hold it together and keep it from moving. That was a blessing because it brought immediate relief from the nerve pain.

     I was also scheduled for surgery so an 8-inch screw could be inserted into my pelvis. Surprisingly, I healed quickly and did not need surgery for that.

NEXT, REHAB

      I was now waiting for rehabilitation, fully aware that ‘rehab’ is crucial for recovery after injuries such as mine. The Glenrose Rehabilitation Centre — just across the street from the Royal Alex — is renowned in Canada. When I asked to be transferred there, I was told it wasn’t “standard procedure.” Like that makes sense.

     Every weekday, surgeons, assistants, students, and junior surgeons would wake me up, surround me, and discuss my condition without speaking to me. I asked questions — such as why my left foot was in pain and why it was swollen despite not being injured. I was only given minimal answers and obstructionist responses. That was not a good sign.

FILTH, STEPS AND MISSTEPS

     After nearly two months in the Royal Alex, I desperately needed to change my bed sheets, wipe down the bed, plus wash myself to avoid sleeping in my own filth. Thankfully, my girlfriend took four months off work and cared for me every day — even when some staff tried to stop her from getting clean linens. The decent nurses grew to love her because it reduced their workload. Some health care workers however, treated me like a number, not a person.

    I had multiple issues with doctors and staff at the Alex. They grabbed my foot and arm while I slept, treating me like a child. I put a sign on the door requesting staff to ask for permission before they touched my injured foot. My arms and hands became bruised and sore from inexperienced staff trying to install IV lines. One tip actually bent inside my vein, resulting in bleeding.

    A catheter was installed in my penis. After 13 days, I inquired if it could come out so I could urinate on my own. The nurse asked if it was still in there, which I confirmed. He said catheters have various lengths for different periods of time, but I knew it had been in me too long. I sat up and positioned myself for him to remove it. The pain was excruciating, so I asked him to stop. He had assured me that it shouldn’t hurt, but that wasn’t the case. I yanked it out myself. Turns out, the plastic end had come apart, and the tip was the size of a dime. It started to bleed and wouldn’t stop for five days. By then, the wound had turned black.

     After surgery, I was wheeled to the ‘Cast Clinic’ so my broken leg could be tended to. Again, the pain was out of this world, and a nurse’s rough handling of my foot during the cast removal infuriated me. My girlfriend was on damage control again. By Saturday morning, my foot had swollen and turned red, unbearable to touch.

     The following Monday, a new surgeon informed me that I couldn’t get into the Glenrose, despite my repeated requests for information. However, 15 minutes later, a nurse informed me of my acceptance and the following day I was admitted to the rehab hospital. As I turned the corner in a gurney, the same surgeon stood at the nurses’ station — and apologized. I remained silent.

THE GLENROSE!

     My stay at the Glenrose Rehabilitation Hospital was transformative. The rehab was swift, informative, and staff provided exceptional assistance, significantly improving my quality of life. All my injuries [except for my left leg and foot] were healing remarkably well.

     There was now some light at the end of the tunnel. I underwent morning physiotherapy for my right leg and pelvis, followed by afternoon physiotherapy for my upper body. By November — mind you, this was two months after the accident — I was in relatively good shape despite my left leg being badly messed up.

    I don’t recognize the doctors, director (physiatrist), or pharmacist as hospital staff. They operated independently, seemingly with their own agenda. I only met the director [physiatrist] twice and it was him walking into my room talking, not looking at me, turning and walking out. This is supposed to be the person directly responsible for my rehabilitation.

    Doctors at the Glenrose rotated every Wednesday, providing minimal information and care. They focused on my medication, asking about its effectiveness and if I needed more. Despite dealing with 19 different doctors, I found only one who genuinely cared and worked overtime to help. The others were dismissive, prescribing medications without first consulting the patient.

     I was prescribed gabapentin and pregabalin [for nerve pain], nana tryptamine [a psychedelic compound], and duloxin [antidepressant]. When I asked if I should discontinue one medication while starting another, I was told the meds would interact and help each other. That’s how I ended up on four different antidepressants — at high doses no less. Every four hours, I took Dilaudid for severe pain.

     Except for turning purple, my injured foot remained unchanged.

      I finally managed to get an appointment with a surgeon who diagnosed me with “complex regional pain syndrome” (CRPS). He felt things would likely improve soon. I learned about CRPS through research, discovering that in Canada it is recognized as a disability. Sure enough. In October, I noticed green discharge from an open wound after surgery.

      The Infectious Bone and Disease Unit was called and they came to my room. They asked that I bite down on something as they inserted a sharp metal rod to the bone and held it for ten seconds. That’s so they could take a bacteria culture of the bone to confirm the infection. It was a long ten seconds. I blacked out because it was  extremely painful.

YOU’RE PUTTING YOUR FINGERS WHERE??

     Here’s one example of how some doctors treated patients — not as a human being but as a faceless individual on a medical chart. A young doctor walked into my room at the Glenrose at about 12:30pm. He wore rubber gloves and carried a package of lubrication in his hand. He said he needed to look in my ass immediately, because I supposedly had internal bleeding. I kind of chuckled and said, “How do you figure that?” He replied it was because of my blood test; my hemoglobin levels were way down! So he got closer and said he had to check for blood. I said, “Doctor, hold on. When was this blood test??” He responded,  “This morning.” I said, “Well, I didn’t give blood this morning, so you’re mistaken.”

    He wouldn’t listen and was adamant about sticking his fingers in my ass. I had to get stern with him. I stood up on one leg from my bed and said, “If you’re not going to listen to me, then I’m going to stick MY fingers up your ass!!” He then realized that something was wrong and he left my room. Around 4pm that day he stuck his head in my room and said, “Sorry, no that wasn’t your bloodwork earlier.” I never saw him again.

   The bottom line was that somewhere in the hospital was a patient whose bloodwork was obviously not handled properly.

MRSA = SHORT FOR BAD NEWS

      A few days later, I was informed that I had an ‘MRSA infection’ and needed to change rooms. The nurse suggested that I “Google MRSA” to find out more.

     To save you the trouble of looking it up, MRSA stands for ‘methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus,’ It was hard to pronounce, even harder to cure. MRSA is a type of staph bacteria that has become resistant to many common antibiotics.

     I now had a private hospital room. I started reading and asking my nurse about MRSA. My previous roommate in the Glenrose had dealt with the same issue. He too had MRSA and a metal rod in his leg as well and had to return to the Royal Alex for follow-up surgery [debridement].

     I then underwent a two-day “nuclear bone scan” where radioactive material was injected into my blood. The results showed there was MRSA on my left leg at places where the metal rod had been inserted.

      Staff repeatedly assured me that MRSA is “common” in hospitals. However, other healthcare providers shared that some staff don’t always follow proper pre-surgery cleaning procedures. In other words, they screw up now and then.

      It was confirmed on November 4th that I had MRSA. The other injuries were healing well — except for my left leg — which was worsening. It was purple, leaking fluid, and I couldn’t touch it. The surgeon prescribed antibiotics, but I learned that there’s no antibiotic in Canada that can kill MRSA, especially on metal, where it can survive indefinitely. I asked if MRSA was on the metal. The surgeon didn’t think so. I suggested removing the metal rod and cleaning the leg, but he refused, fearing further surgery might cause more damage. So, MRSA stayed in my leg until January 30th.

      On that day, they had to do what I had asked three months earlier, which was to open it up, debribe, and replace the metal pin. This confirmed that the antibiotics had not worked and the X-rays confirmed that MRSA was on the metal.

    Thankfully, my other injuries were healed and rehabilitated since December 2024. I remained at Glenrose until January 30th. The staff promised priority when I returned after my surgery.

SORRY, YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN

       On January 30th, I underwent a debridement surgery, again at the Royal Alexandra Hospital. I was told to be at a specific location at five in the morning — but there was no staff at the Glenrose to transfer me overnight. Unable to walk, I phoned the hospital, explaining my situation and asked if someone could bring a wheelchair to the emergency doors. They apologized but said I was responsible for getting there.

     In the end, a friend came to get me, and we borrowed a wheelchair from the Glenrose. He loaded me into his vehicle and took me to the emergency doors — the only doors that were not locked at that hour.

     The surgery was completed. The IV machine provided me with two 45-minute antibiotic treatments every 24 hours. When it was empty, I rang my buzzer until someone came. Sometimes it took more than an hour for a nurse to arrive, especially when a new crew came on duty.

      One time, when a male nurse showed up, he didn’t introduce himself properly. I asked him to disconnect the beeping machine, but he said there was more in it. I told him to send someone who would help. His response was to call security, claiming “his life was in danger.” I’m not making that up.

      I fell asleep with my leg in the air, but the pain remained. I awoke to see a Peace Officer and a security guard hovering over my bed. They were investigating what the nurse had told them. At the same time, the machine was still beeping, and the officer asked if it could be shut off. I’f been asking that for hours. I was in extreme pain, tired, and crippled, and I didn’t want to talk to him. He kept talking, and I fell asleep. It was 1:30 in the morning.

     Staff at the Glenrose expected me to return for rehab. However, on February 7th, the director/physiatrist denied my rehab treatment there — without explanation. Disgusted with the filthy conditions at the Alex, I requested to be treated as an outpatient. My surgeon agreed. I could sense his guilt that he had allowed my leg to rot for so long owing to a misdiagnosis.

    I’m now back home, and a wound care nurse is scheduled to assess my house and monitor my leg. Friends bought me a hospital bed and crutches.

    Insurance was paying $600 a week for my injuries. They also offered to provide a ramp and a shower seat. However, even though I’d been home for nearly two months, no one got in touch with me. Silence. By then, however, I had figured things out on my own.

    Pus continued to leak from my leg after my debridement surgery on January 30th. The advice from my surgeon was to remove the stitches in two weeks. However, my doctor thought otherwise. He suggested leaving the stitches in for an extra week owing to the infection.

When I returned to have the stitches removed, my leg was opened again because it was still badly infected.

ONE STEP FORWARD, TWO BACK …

     I find myself back to square one with an infection that’s been leaking out of the same hole since late October. During my stays at the Alex and the Glenrose, I learned much about MRSA and CRPS. The alphabet never looked so evil.

    I consulted with an Edmonton company called Natural Terrain, where staff recommended Ozone/Colloidal silver to combat MRSA. And for this, I forked out $1,800, which emptied my savings account. I was eventually reimbursed by my insurance company, but it took nearly three months before the cheque arrived.

    There was supposed to be a follow-up with my surgeon six weeks after surgery, but they could not locate my name in the system. I finally got in — nine weeks later. I was then prescribed another round of antibiotics for 13 weeks. That was bad on two counts: the medicine didn’t work, and my kidneys were damaged. My surgeon was surprised that I chose Ozone/Colloidal silver instead of his prescription for doxycycline. He acknowledged that Ozone/Colloidal was effective.

     I now have a one-inch hole in my leg that goes straight to the bone, and so I asked the surgeon, “What do we do now?” His response was, “We’ll get you an appointment with the plastic surgeon across the hall.” Four days later, I was under the knife again.

     At this point, I needed a skin graft. The plastic surgeon booked me with the Royal Alexandra Hospital three days later. During my consultation, he was appalled that the infection had been left so long. It had rotted skin tissue, bone, and muscle, making it harder to fix and causing further damage to my leg.

SKIN GRAFTS

     After five days, we had to unwrap my leg to examine the skin graft. The nurse was lazy and asked if I wanted to do it. I asked for the supplies and scissors. It took two and a half hours to peel off the hard bandages.

The surgeons’ faces showed panic when they saw my leg. The first surgeon immediately put on a gown, gloves, and started cutting the skin graft. The hematoma was huge. His colleague sat on the other side of my bed, using her phone as a flashlight, and holding her purse without gloves.

    I wanted to leave but the surgeon pleaded with me to stay,  saying they’d find a private room and I’d go back under the knife immediately.

    They assured me I was getting my new skin graft surgery three days later, but it took seven days. This time, I had a wound vac machine. It helped my wound heal faster and sucked out any discharge or blood from my first graft.

     Five days after my second surgery, my leg was unwrapped. The nurse was lazy and asked if I wanted it done which, of couse, I did. The surgeon and his entourage entered my room at 5 in the morning and inspected my leg. They seemed pleased, took pictures, patted themselves on the back, and documented verbally. It was a 100% ‘take,’ but the pain was worse than ever.

    I desperately wanted to leave the hospital and go home. I realize it was a big hospital and to some we’re just numbers, not people. They treated me like I was stupid. For example, after my first skin graft surgery, an occupational therapist brought a walker into my room … but I couldn’t use it because I couldn’t bend my leg. She refused to give me crutches because, she claimed, they would make my armpits sore, even though I’d been using them at the Glenrose for four months.

    The surgeon agreed to give me ‘out patient status’ and send me home. We also agreed for a wound-care nurse to come to my home.

     In the skin graft world, this is the best one can get. Unfortunately, they had to remove more skin from my thigh, prolonging my healing, making my CRPS much more painful — and I had to stay in a filthy room with staff who only wanted to give me Dilaudid to keep me quiet. After their inspection, I requested outpatient care and they agreed, writing a prescription for Dilaudid and doxycycline antibiotics. They passed it on to the staff and nurses.

OPIATES

    The day shift informed me that my prescription would be ready at 9:30 am, so I called my father to pick me up. However, two hours later, I still hadn’t received my prescription.

    I was now in extreme pain, but no one was providing any explanation. According to a nurse, the good doctor had refused to prescribe a pain reliever. I was confused and waited patiently. Finally, I couldn’t tolerate the pain plus the lack of transparency regarding the doctor’s override of the surgeon’s pain management instructions.

    I’ve learned the hard way about opiate withdrawals. I’d never taken opioids before, and no one at the hospital explained the potential consequences of going cold turkey. I sought information from a pharmacist and was referred to an Alberta Opiate hotline. A knowledgeable doctor reviewed my medical records and informed me that I’m lucky to not have died while coming off the drug, based on the amount given. He explained that they should either “bridge me” until I see my family doctor or gradually reduce my dosage before discharge. Makes sense.

INSURANCE

   I was now dealing with a skin graft. That proved to be another nightmare.

    My surgeon, medical doctor, and Naturopath doctor all agreed that hyperbaric oxygen therapy was beneficial for recovery, healing, and preventing infections. However, the insurance company refused to pay me upfront, or make a payment arrangement with Naturalpath … even consider me paying the money back from my insurance settlement.

   The insurance company was another roadblock.

    It’s ironic that Albertans are entitled to $50,000 of medical treatment from the insurance company after an accident, but they must first spend their own money, send an invoice, and wait for a cheque. I spent seven months in the hospital without employment, and my weekly income from the insurance company was $600 per week. That fell short of covering my living expenses. How could I possibly finance my medical treatment then?

    I contacted my MLA, who referred me to an Alberta Insurance Ombudsman. She admitted that the guidelines were vague. The bottom line is that a system supposedly designed to help you … doesn’t.

    I wanted to start rehabilitation on my leg, but my pain level was a ten due to CRPS and botched surgeries. I couldn’t even put a sock on my leg. I also couldn’t sleep and enjoy life.

    Since my diagnosis of CRPS in late October, I was educating myself  so that I would be ready for treatment. There was a drug called Neridronate which was approved for use in Canada in 2019 for a trial run. The drug, which was also licenced in Canada for two other bone-related conditions to treat bone-related conditions. However, they canceled it for treating CRPS — because they weren’t making enough money. All 83 cases that year were 100% cured. Go figure.

IN CLOSING …

     I found a couple of countries where Neridronate is legal, Italy being at the forefront since 2012. There are no side effects to the drug, and it’s a four-injection treatment over five days. Neridronate is a cure! It’s just not a financial cure for Big Pharma.

     I worked for five months to get admitted to Italy. I sent bloodwork, medical records, cleared my MRSA infection, and filled out and for weeks and months I supplied the necessary information. The insurance company knew about it, but they kept changing my case workers and I was forced to start over again.

    I submitted the information, consulted my doctors, and they agreed it was a good idea. I submitted all this to the insurance company, but they said I only had $50,000 available and had used some of it.They said the treatment was $39,000, so I still had enough left. I submitted  the treatment paperwork, and it came to $5900, leaving $44,100. The insurance company replied that I had less than $36,000. This is worse than dealing with Revenue Canada.

    The next day, I received a call from the insurance company saying they were wrong to deny because of the money available. It was confirmed that I have $43,000 left.

     However, I have a new case manager who requires me to reassess everything. They want me to see an independent osteo surgeon for an assessment, and they’ll need all my medical records before the accident, plus other information that will take months. I asked why I have a third case manager, since the other two case workers were only trained to work in the Maritimes and they should not have been handling my file.

     I’ve been transparent with my insurance company, lawyer, ombudsman, doctors, and others throughout this ordeal. Yet, they remain indifferent, and the battle continues. My left leg has deteriorated to almost nothing, with atrophy in my foot. Read tdhat again. Atrophy. It won’t matter if I get Neridronate; rehabilitation seems impossible.