Hanging about in waiting room

I have had more than the usual number of injuries over my 67-year life. This is not a bad thing, since it really demonstrates a life of experience. It might also be demonstrating a life of carelessness, but that is for others to judge.

Recently, the following happened. I was due to go to a clinic to have my foot examined. There was nothing really wrong with my foot. It just ached and I felt that maybe it was twisted. As I made my way out of the house, I stepped on to the paving and stubbed my toe, which started to bleed. This put paid to any clinic visit and I had to wait until my foot healed. This took a week and I finally got to the clinic, where the doctor said that all was not well and that the foot required examination by a specialist. At this time, I was not in a position to drive a car, and so I got my brother to drive me to the specialist. The specialist was located in a local private hospital and so after my brother signed us in and filled out forms, we sat down to wait.

It is probably important to record that we were accepted on the basis that my medical aid would be paying. We hadn’t booked in advance and so my brother and I did not expect to be seen anytime soon. At the same time, the injury to my foot was relatively minor and so we had some expectation that it would be treated in due course.

We had arrived at 14:00 and we talked and caught up with each other about various things which we hadn’t discussed for the past few months, and we noted that while the place wasn’t very busy, we were not being attended to. Finally, we were shown to a treatment room where they measured my blood pressure and told us to wait and, at 18:00 (four hours after we had arrived) a doctor had a brief look at my foot. He wasn’t a very experienced doctor, judging by his youth, and left with the same speed with which he had arrived, and we waited for further help, but none came. At 20:00, my brother, who can be quite patient, decided that we had waited long enough and he went in search of a doctor and he came back with a more experienced one.

This doctor looked at my foot and said we could wait another two hours, which my brother said was not possible. This doctor then signed the back of our form and told us to come back the following day. We finally left the hospital at 20:30.

The following morning, we drove to the hospital again and signed in and made our way to the admission area as before and again sat down to wait. Very much the same thing happened as on the previous day, with the exception that at 15:00 a porter encouraged us to go to an area where he said we would receive attention more quickly. By this time I was not in any mood to see the doctor, having spent more than 16 hours waiting for a fairly simple X-ray, but my brother insisted and so we sat around and again we ran into a doctor who encouraged us to come back the following day for treatment.

I was very reluctant to do this, as it was Friday evening and we would have to wait until Monday. Nevertheless, on Monday, we went back to the hospital and much the same happened, but on this occasion a fairly senior doctor told us that we would have to see a vascular surgeon, who was away for ten days, and we could return for treatment then.

I am not a doctor, but I was surprised and slightly alarmed that my foot would require a vascular surgeon and it seemed to me as if the matter had been escalated out of all proportion. This was confirmed when a clerk pointed out that if we insisted on being treated before the vascular surgeon returned, it would cost R18 000.

Thus, this is the situation I am now in, at the time of writing. I have a foot which is seemingly slightly bruised, but definitely not seriously damaged and in my opinion (not that it counts much) it would heal itself without too much intervention. It is all a mystery, and I will continue the tale next time.