From sOHIP to nOHIP

I haven't posted in ages, but not for lack of things to be ungrateful about. Just as Mr. O was scheming ways to make the most of his time "off" and endear himself to the local industry (take on graphic and web design projects for free and hence legally without a permit, take a professional development course to get something local on his CV), the one-month culture shock kicked in – big time. Two weeks ago on our way to work Mr. O crashed his bike, doing a somersault over the handlebars and landing on his arm and head (with helmet, luckily). Acting on impulse (and knowledge of head injuries) I hauled him bleeding and dizzy into a cab to the emergency at the nearest hospital. We arrived to an empty waiting room, and a nurse who took his credit card information and had him sign forms before receiving any medical attention. Of course, our nOHIP doesn't kick in for three months from the time of application, which means some time at the end of November. In the meantime, we had assumed that our respective work insurance policies would cover any emergencies; nope, they also carry a three-month probationary clause. So Mr. O forked over 430$ for a three-and-a-half hour wait, a blood-pressure check, and a bandaid and headrub from a medical student. By the time I tracked him down on the phone he was ready to leave, not only from the pain (he had been given no painkiller and had seen no doctor), but also because the people who were already waiting before him had also not been treated, including one woman who started to cry, and because he hadn't had any food or water since arriving at the hospital.
I remember feeling rather haughty watching Morgan Spurlock trying to get basic medical treatment in the US (after all, Mr. O's injuries were non-life threatening) but I can do so no longer. The Canadian "social welfare" system is all but non-existent for new Canadians. For those of you who raise their eyebrows at my claims, try to imagine moving to a country with no police force. That's how it strikes someone coming from a functional social welfare system into Canada.
To be fair, we were warned to buy health insurance before coming to Canada. The main reason we didn't was because we thought our work insurance would cover us. At that point Mr. O already had the job, although had not yet laid eyes on his contract nor on his insurance policy – but he did know that there was one. It's surprising to me that a company that brings in foreign workers doesn't provide for their welfare once they arrive. It is also of note that we are paying taxes during this period, though for what, I've yet to see with my own eyes.
So this was Mr. O's entree into "culture shock." I talked to a fellow importer of foreign men (read: man) and she said her import was experiencing a similar tendency to hide away and just flat out hate this new place for a little while. As for me, I am only slightly better off, having shelled out another 450$, this time to Manulife, for "Visitors to Canada insurance" a variation on travel insurance designed for liminal folks like us. Word to the wise: get it before it gets you. This, and a verbal agreement with Mr. O that we are not committed to staying here for any length of time, is the compromise we've arrived at. The idea that we had made a mistake coming here at all crossed my mind for the first time.
After disappearing into our little house of a hole for a week or so (coming out for work and food only) we were feeling better. Mr. O has a scar in the shape of a guy driving a tractor on his left elbow, and a bruise the size of a field underneath. But he has also completed a rite of passage: he has tasted the wrath of Toronto's viciously slippery and cruel streetcar tracks, which means he is officially a Local Cyclist.