A longtime resident of Uxbridge, Ted Barris has written professionally for 40 years - for radio, television, magazines and newspapers. The "Barris Beat" column began in the 1950s when his father Alex wrote for the Globe and Mail. Ted continues the tradition of offering a positive view of his community. He has written 16 non-fiction books of Canadian history and teaches journalism at Centennial College in Toronto.
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Ending the year with a bang
I simply went to exchange a Christmas gift. By 11 a.m. on Dec. 30, I reached the electronics store in south Whitby. But because of holiday demand, the store didn't have much selection left. So, they gave me a credit and asked me to come back in the new year. I headed home - northbound on Thickson Road. It was just after noon. On the radio they were about to announce the roster for Team Canada, the men's Olympic hockey team.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said, “Steve Yzerman.”
That's the last sound that came from my car radio. At that moment, I entered the intersection of Thickson and Rossland. As I did, a one-ton pickup truck suddenly came at me from the right. Before I could react, we collided and my car was spinning clockwise. I thought, “There's going to be a second impact … a pole … another vehicle … or a least the curb.” But it never came.
Fortunately, my little old Corolla just stopped spinning on its own. And - seconds later - when I focused, I was facing the opposite direction. The truck that had hit me sat crosswise in front of me. I was covered in glass and debris from the truck's front-end and what was left of the passenger's side of my car. Then I consciously looked to my hands and feet. Thankfully, I could move them. A woman approached and told me my head was bleeding. And I suddenly felt pain there. A moment or two later a man with a cell phone to his ear approached from the driver's side, opened the door and spoke with a bit of an accent.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
At first, all I cared was that I could hear him and that I could understand him. “Was the light green?” I asked.
“I saw it all. You had the green. You were in the right,” he said. “I've called 911. Help's on the way.” And he handed me his card: Alva Wedderburn, Al's Home Services, it said.
“Hold onto that, if you need a witness or anything.” And I promised myself I'd call and thank him when I could.
I next remember sirens, a couple of them. Then someone in one of those fluorescent pullovers - a police officer - began directing traffic. And two voices - a couple of paramedics - began asking me questions: Where was there any pain? Was I able to breathe OK? They asked me my name and asked me to stay still in case I had a neck injury. It occurred to me later that they'd asked all the right questions, but they'd also treated me like a person, not just a nameless victim in a car wreck. And that never changed - from the accident scene, on the ride to Ajax Hospital and into the emergency ward.
I learned that one of them - Darcy Caffin - had been a paramedic for 16 years. He'd studied at Fanshaw College and regularly upgraded his training to stay on top of his profession. His partner - Derek Brain - reacted when I said I needed to call a veteran I'd intended to meet that afternoon. He said he had a special interest in vets. And we shared some military history. But amid the friendly conversation, they never lost sight of my well-being - checking my blood pressure and heart rate like clockwork. Whether protocol required it or not, Caffin and Brain made my case seem priority one. And they never let me out of their sight until I was safely in the hands of hospital staff. They seemed surprised when I asked for a pen to write down their names. I said I didn't want to forget their professionalism or kindness.
“All in a day's work,” one of them said.
A few hours, an examination and four staples in my head later, I left the hospital and visited what was left of my Corolla among wrecks in a Whitby towing company yard. I felt sad the last car my parents had ever owned and passed on to me should end up this way. Maybe my survival that day was among their last gifts to me. But then I remembered my Good Samaritan. I called Al Wedderburn back to ask why he'd stopped.
“It was nothing, really,” he said. I placed his accent as Jamaican, but he said he'd been here 30 years. “Nowadays people are too busy to stop. But where I come from, if your fellow man is in distress, you lend a hand.”
By quarter-past-noon on Dec. 30, I'd been quite prepared to hate the world for what had happened. But by day's end, I was thankful for the kindness of a stranger and two paramedics and their humanitarian gifts when I most needed them.
