The Waiting Game

This feeling of exhaustion begins as you step into the waiting room of a doctor’s office; most have the same look and feel - walls covered with outdated, textured wallpaper, small tears along the seams, the trim and chair rail are painted in pale sea-foam green; old magazines - Chatelaine, Reader’s Digest, Sports Illustrated, and National Geographic - seem to be favorite subscriptions for most doctor’s offices, stacked on the tables separating the rows of patients seated uncomfortably close together, covers are torn, and the pages are stuck together with a mysterious glue like substance. The easy listening music of 104.5 CHUM FM playing on the radio is drowned out by the persistent coughing, and sneezing of waiting patients. The receptionist quietly sits behind a thin layer of protective plastic, with a small opening at the base of the counter top, which is reserved for health cards, and new patient forms.

After you check in at reception, the waiting game begins. You anticipate the hours you will spend sitting, waiting for the opportunity to briefly speak with a doctor. No matter what time of day you arrive at the doctor’s office, the waiting room is always packed - full of people who one can only assume would rather be in bed, wishing the doctor made house calls. Every minute feels like ten minutes should have passed; other patients act as your measure of time and, ultimately, how much longer you will have to wait.

Slowly, the nurse picks up a file, and one-by-one calls patients by last name; everyone perks up, hoping to hear theirs called. Once called, they quickly gather their belongings, drop the half read magazine on the chair, and follow the nurse. This brief moment of satisfaction is lost when you realize you are being taken to another waiting area.

This new waiting area is secluded with no way to measure your place in line; there are no magazines, no other patients, just you and an examining table. You carefully listen for the thumping sounds of wooden soles walking down the hallway. As the thumping becomes louder, you know you’re next - your wait has come to an end.

The doctor spends a few minutes assessing what often feels like an endless list of symptoms, and scribbles down something on a prescription pad, which you hope the pharmacist will be able to decode, and sends you on your way.

Walking out of the office you feel puzzled, if every patient only sees the doctor a few minutes, why do you have to wait so long?