Once again in that disconcerting position of being on the other side of the healthcare provider- patient line. It’s not much fun I can tell you. I’m sitting in the waiting room of my local hospital in a 60 minute queue to get some routine bloods done. I arrived at 0830 and picked up ticket number 75 but I notice that the phlebotomists are currently with person number 47 – who it seems is a wriggly child. I take a deep inward sigh when I hear from the room “tell him to keep still!”. It’s a child – they are unlikely to keep still when a stranger is approaching them with a needle. I will have wait patiently as a patient, this is going to be a long morning.
I am reminded of the fact that despite being a doctor and it being the bread and butter of my existence, I don’t really like hospitals much. Initially it was mainly based on the stress I felt when I used to work in these places but now it is replaced with the nausea and horror I was feeling in the last six months of my father life before he passed away. This is somewhat fading after almost 2 years but there is still a bitter aftertaste that does not quite go away.