Gone in 60 seconds

Celebrating milestones in the last 18 months has been less than optimal. And we’ve had many. Our 50th wedding anniversary, however, was decidedly different and incrementally closer to reality than our previous virtual acknowledgments. September 5 was a “golden” day for Ellen and me. Our intimate congregate gathering of four included our daughter and son-in-law, our granddaughter Hannah having just started university at Queen’s was froshing and unavailable. Our son, daughter-in-law and nine-year-old grandson remained secluded in their U.S. bunker, Ollie having already started grade 4 and his parents unwilling to jeopardize his safety by travelling to a dangerous fourth wave country. We did our patented FaceTime visit prior to an elegant dinner on a decoratively tented patio. It was a magical evening, a brief reminder of what normal can feel like. Just as we pulled into the driveway at home, our Winnipeg family called from their cottage in Gimli to offer their best wishes. The time was 9:45 p.m. Once in the house and settled for the night, we reminisced, reflecting on our beautiful family, good fortune, while optimistically projecting all the wonders still ahead. Lights out at 11:15p.m. Read: How to love patients with chronic pain My circadian rhythm has been short-circuited in recent months, the product of a pandemic conundrum and an enigmatic retirement. The LED clocked me at the usual 2:50 a.m. and again at 5:15 a.m. When I finally extricated myself from the bed, it was 8:15 and the start of the next 50 years. The aroma of coffee was a welcome awakening. Ellen was already comfortably cuddled on her couch office. I mumbled my “good morning” and was immediately handed her iPhone. A text message was received a few minutes earlier from our next-door neighbour. It read, “sorry I didn’t see this sooner, just checked. Our Ring Video doorbell identified suspicious activity outside your house at 10:46 p.m. last night.” We had only returned home one hour earlier! The video clip, one minute in length, showed a male subject walking purposely from the direction of our driveway to a parked vehicle in front our mutually shared front curb. He is carrying a cellphone with its flashlight guiding the way. He casually gets into a white four-door sedan which leaves the scene shortly thereafter, and in no particular hurry. No hoodie or baseball cap is worn to obscure identification. I walk immediately to the front door and urgently open it. My SUV was gone, vanished! The driveway is a barren stretch of asphalt. There is an eerie feeling of helplessness that overcomes you when faced with the realization that your personal space, property and security have been violated. The sinus tachycardia seemed like a reasonable response at the time. While my wife was erratically pacing the hardwood, uttering forth expletives that would make a veteran truck driver blush, I compartmentalized, organizing my thoughts and actions, a measured reaction to the heinous heist. I sat down at the kitchen table and prepared my checklist, prioritizing on the fly. My usual legible script took on the hieroglyphic form commonly attributed to physicians. Read: The federal government is out of excuses: It’s time to get serious about pharmacare York Region Police was the logical first call. I provided a thorough clinical history, using the time-tested SOAP format, with some necessary modifications. I forwarded the Ring Video for Constable Mac’s review. He provided a brief history of car theft rings, usual methodology and opined the likelihood that my vehicle was in transit to parts unknown as we spoke. He also stated that my report would suffice for their needs assessment and that an officer would “canvas” the neighbourhood for additional video evidence. I had an immediate flashback to all the “Acorn” police series we’ve watched where CCTV evidence facilitates crime-solving in England, Scotland or Australia. My next call was to the insurance company. This call was clocked at 37 minutes in length and was painfully repetitive as the advisor had difficulty following the chain of events and the timing specifics. The Ring video was similarly forwarded as was the screenshot from my car’s app which showed the “last parked” location at 4:10 a.m., September 6, subsequently identified as a Petro Canada truck stop near the intersection of Highway #50 and Rutherford Rd. On further review the following day, additional tracking data indicated that the perpetrator(s) made a stop en route to the extraction site somewhere near Canada’s Wonderland, that final “trip” documented between 3:50 and 4:10 a.m. An address on a residential street is highlighted. This information was shared with YRPolice. I surmised that the 10:46 intruder was the advance scout and that the extraction had taken place just prior to 4:00 a.m. The call list continued, including to the leasing company for my vehicle, a car rental company for temporary wheels and 407 ETR, as my transponder was similarly in transit, an innocent passenger perched upon the dash. And then I received a followup email from the insurance advisor requesting a list of contents in the vehicle at the time of the theft and their replacement value. I tried to reconstruct the various compartments within the car and their inclusions. The list was not that extensive: two pairs of prescription glasses, one with polarized lenses, a regular pair of Ray-Bans, a few iPhone charging cords and a yarmulke used for funerals and shiva calls. And then I remembered the doctor bag! The black bag, a travelling valise with Tycos, Littman and Welch Allen tools carefully stowed within, has clocked a lot of mileage over the years, accompanying our every trip to the cottage for more than 30 summers and winters, on the chance that, in the isolation of lake country, a neighbour might call in distress. The traditional black leather doctor bag was gifted by my parents on graduation in 1970. It has done 50 house calls years and bears the scars of age. And, it has stories to tell. A poem I wrote in December, 2017 entitled “The Black Bag,” concludes with: “The trusty bag has weathered storms and time and life A constant in a changing world Reminding me of early days When life less complicated ruled And duty called And off I went And people smiled And opened doors” I called the medical supplier I had long sourced for office support, provided a list of equipment to be replaced, including the doctor bag and subsequently submitted the list to the insurance advisor: Equipment, $850.00. Doctor bag, “priceless” or at the very least, $248.19. The week that followed was one fraught with unsettled feelings and distraction. My fractured sleep pattern was unrelenting. I received a followup call from Constable Mac, who had been on leave for the weekend, in response to the additional data I had forwarded indicating a residential address where the car had made an unscheduled pit stop, “the night of.” He assured that a officer would “scout” the area. In a later email he offered, in what he must have felt was breaking news, that a drive-by had revealed that my vehicle was not in said driveway! Truth be known, my vehicle was most likely at the Port of Montreal in a container preparing for a transatlantic cruise. I thought that gaming “Grand Theft Auto” might improve his investigative skills. Read: Stop blaming family doctors The insurance advisor called my cellphone last evening interrupting the Rabbi’s Yom Kippur sermon we were streaming. I had to take this call. Settlement details were provided for the vehicle claim, however, replacement value specifics were lacking. He would confirm after checking with his “people.” Once the cheque is issued and received by the leasing company, I can then order a new vehicle. The contents replacement is yet to be worked out. The 51-year- old doctor bag will present an actuarial challenge for calculating depreciation. In retrospect, despite the emotional inconvenience, transportation disruption and personal security breach, it is just a car. As for the doctor bag, it was to be my legacy for our granddaughter, newly entered into an Honours Science program with a medical trajectory. When she graduates in 2030, the scuffed and well-travelled bag will be replaced by a new one. I will take the liberty of adding the dreams, and Hannah can fill it with her own stories.

Gone in 60 seconds

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Blog Author

HOWARD GOLDSTEIN

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