The Courteous Language of Service

This past Saturday night was a gumbo of fun, fright and enlightenment. But it's only now that I recognize that. For several hours, it was only terrifying.
I was at Citizens Bank Park in Philadelphia to see the World Champs battle their Knickerbocker Nemeses, the New York Mets. The game was back and forth, with the Mets ahead and the Phillies coming back, battling into extra innings. The up-and-down nature of the game was matched by fans, who stood and sat throughout the game. That is, most of the fans, but not me.
I had gone to the game while recuperating from a herniated disk. It didn't feel bad at the beginning, and I knew enough to get up from my seat every once in a while and stretch my legs. Still, by the seventh inning, it became difficult to rise. By the time the Mets walked Shane Victorino in the 10th inning to hand them the game, I was plastered to my seat, unable to see the winning run.
For able-bodied readers, you can only imagine the pain and the fear I was feeling. First, I was unable to get out of a chair for 10 to 15 minutes. Stadium staff politely requested that I leave so they could clean, and I advised them that I had a severe back problem. "Do you want medical assistance, sir," she asked. Not yet, I groaned.
Imagine further that once I made it out of the chair, I could not climb the stairs, as it was nearly impossible to place one foot in front of the other. When I finally made it to the top only by hanging onto two other men, I gave in. "Please get the medical transport," I requested, " and take me to the emergency room."
The transport team asked me how I wanted to be placed in their golfcart-like vehicle. They complied, and before I knew it, I was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. (By the way, if you want to see interesting looks on people's faces, go through a crowd on some sort of emergency vehicle.)
You have to know that I am a middle-aged man for whom this would be the first time EVER as an emergency room patient. Up to now, I only visited ERs for other members of my family. This was a new experience. Once I made it to a gurney and had my blood pressure and sugar checked (I have type 2 diabetes), I spent many minutes slowly moving parts of my body into a position that would not cause me to scream. At one point, I was facing the wall while a physician was talking with me. I stopped to say, "I'm really sorry not to face you. It's only because I can't turn around. I don't mean to be rude."
He said, "I don't get upset at things like that. You are the most civil patient I've ever had from a Phillies game. (He went on to explain that most Philadelphia sports fans are in the ER as a result of a fight with an opposing fan.)
I spent five hours there getting shot up with pain-killers until my buddy, Vince, could take me home.
Since then, I have slept off the drugs and returned to as much mental acuity as I normally muster. But as I reflect on this incident, I realized how much society has changed in the way we treat strangers or others in need. My encounters with the staff at the ball park started politely rather than as a confrontation ("Get out of here, we have to clean!"). When my plight was apparent, others joined to help, and they could not have been more concerned.
The transport team asked about my comfort every step of the way. When they had to get my medical information, and it was obvious that I was lying on my wallet, the EMT was patient.
In the emergency room, every physician and nurse addressed me as "sir," asked about my condition, and treated my questions with respect, explaining what would happen to me as a result of the narcotic punchbowl that they were feeding me. They warned me of the side effects so I would understand that they needed to ration the medicine, just so they wouldn't kill me with respiratory problems. You know, little details like those.
It has since dawned on me that this was the effect of the "political correctness" that so many are willing to decry. I said that I am a middle-aged man, and I remember when things were NOT this way. I remember the disdain of inappropriately named "service" people who treated you as though you were their last barrier standing between them and a coffee break. I like this, and I thank the folks in the 1970s who changed not only the language of service but the hearts and minds of society. I'm glad many of us listened to them.