Dale had warned me about the circus outside the hospital, but I wasn’t ready for all the attention.
When I was discharged the Doctor told me to take it easy, get some rest, and not do any heavy lifting. With a wry smile, she wished me good luck. Dale had volunteered to help me pack up and navigate the media scrum camped in front of the hospital. I suggested we sneak out the back entrance to avoid the cameras and reporters. He had other plans.
Reluctantly, I agreed but told him I would not wear the arm sling he wanted me to put on. He argued that television liked a dramatic prop or two. He then offered to push me out in a wheelchair. I told him my legs worked and I intended to use them. He suggested I, at least, wince with pain. No problem I told him. Given the painful conversation I had with him, that part was easy.
The two of us walked down the hall to the main entrance. One lovely nurse handed me a copy of Soccer Mom Fatwa and asked me to sign it. When I mentioned I was not the author, she said she knew that but would never have read the book if it was not for me.
Dumfounded, I signed the book. Looking back, this one stupid moment of complying with the request to sign a book I did not write was the quiet detonation of my personal privacy. I just didn’t know it yet.
The next four weeks started with an explosion of television lights and aggressive, overly made-up reporters thrusting microphones in my face. All the major networks— CNN, CTV, NBC, CBC, Fox—were there, as were El Jazeera, Breitbart, and CBC. The CBC reporter was the same woman with her iPhone on a selfie stick at the library the day I was shot. Labelling the chaos of this group as a scrum did not fit with my understanding of rugby scrums as coordinated, well-drilled, units with order and purpose. Whoever gave the tag to a collection of media professionals hungry for information clearly never played the game. This group behaved more like starving people caught in a looting riot.
The first day in front of the hospital was just the beginning. I had booked time off from work to recuperate but Dale lined up one media event after another. In the next four weeks, everyone who was anybody interviewed me including the four hosts of CBC’s The National, Don Lemon, Anderson Cooper, and Ellen. Internationally, the Russian media was particularly fond of my story. The idea “Tolstoy saved my life” had become a banner headline.
My story went viral on all major social media platforms. The far right called me a champion of free speech and intellectual freedom while the far left said I was an enabler of hate speech. Moderates on both sides called me a hero and a dedicated public servant. Representatives from the Liberals and the New Democrats recruited me to run provincially and nationally. Public attention ran wild. All I could do was hang on.
With my newfound fame, Dale had persuaded me to take a shot at politics. He convinced me to answer the call of all these citizens who wanted better leadership. Leadership like I displayed that day in the library. Right… What had I gotten myself into?
Flash forward to candidate nomination night for the federal riding of Dartmouth-Cole Harbour for the Conservative Party. It was almost show time and I had a rare moment alone. My stomach, tied in nervous knots, felt like it would jump out of my throat and into the sink. This feverish sweat dampened my shirt and my suit smelled strangely like it did when I pick it up at the dry cleaners.
Feeling bad and looking bad do not however always go hand in hand. Don’t let them see you sweat. These simple lessons were some of the many words of wisdom my grandfather instilled in me while I was growing up. His wisdom walked a wide expanse on a diversity of social skills ranging from how to hold a knife and fork to throwing a decent punch.
He was the most public political animal in my family. He was a provincial MLA elected three times to the Nova Scotia Legislature and he narrowly lost the provincial leadership to Bob Stanfield. By instilling in me early the importance of public service, he bore much responsibility for me being in this public washroom with only a nice coal black suit, an Egyptian cotton white shirt, and a Silk gold tie keeping me from looking like a complete mess. My grandfather, always well-dressed, would have loved my suit.
“A great suit should look sharp but fit like a pair of pajamas,” he often said.
“Always important to look good. That way when you are not sure what you are talking about, at least people will think you do,” he added.
I was one of three people competing for the support of almost one thousand assembled delegates. Being late to the game I was not the front runner nor the long shot, so my speech, was key to success.
Chosen at random, the order of speakers was:
Me
Troy Myers 