All is respectful, professional, and caring
beyond the secure door leading to the treatment cubicles.
But in the lobby, a line of people waiting to be triaged,
having to stand in the absence of chairs,
an unwell elderly woman being held up by a friendly patient.
A worried mother behind me waits
while her ten-year-old son curls up on the floor moaning.
We get through triage, staffed by a caring nurse,
then wait to be registered by an administrative assistant,
protected behind a thick glass wall,
bullet proof, I imagine.
Communication is through a speaker.
What is your date of birth?
What is your address?
Your phone number?
Name of your family doctor?
Your emergency contact’s name?
Your emergency contact’s phone number?
The speaker is loud and everyone in the waiting room can hear.
One waiting patient takes a phone call, tells his friend that
he has waited four hours and doesn’t know when he will be back to work.
This place is ridiculous, confidentiality non-existent.
I literally could steal the identities of a dozen people!
I listen to him talking to his friend, imagine he is probably correct.
I wait my four hours, then I hear a nurse call my name? David?
But as another man rises, I realize, alas,
that I am the wrong David.
When I finally do get my call,
I walk toward the inviting secure door,
behind which is everything respectful, professional, and caring.
I smile at the woman comforting her ill ten-year-old son,
who takes that precise moment to
lean forward and vomit into a garbage can.
