Hubby and I don’t mind having to wait as a rule.
There is nearly always a queue in the supermarket, traffic build up at lights, roundabouts, or car parks, even waiting for the kettle to boil can seem longer than normal sometimes.
Waiting somewhere for something is a fact of life for everyone in today’s world.
We appreciate delays can’t be helped, understand that for some, time is money.
But this is how we both felt in the waiting room at the hospital today:
My radiotherapy appointment (number six) was for 9am.
That meant another early start to avoid traffic, and we actually arrived at the hospital at 8am. I walked Maggie in the adjoining park, and we made our way to radiology at 8.30.
I was seen a little before time, greeted by familiar smiling faces who are coming to know me and my wacky sense of humour, laid out, dotted, wired up for imagery and measured before being left to look at the tomato picture as Hugh Jackman hasn’t arrived yet.
I was done and pruned by 9.10, in plenty of time for my 9.20 appointment with ‘God’.
Who had obviously missed the Cloud Bus, or Coffee Cloud, as he wasn’t ready for his first appointment as explained to an elderly couple ahead of us.
They eventually got called in at 9.30.
By 10, I was afraid we’d been forgotten, and Hubby was anxious about Maggie in the car, so I found a member of staff to remind them I was still waiting.
I returned to my seat as Hubby went out to check on the dog, and by the time he came back, nothing had changed.
I was eventually called in at 10.30, to the room where I’d got my tattoos, totally confused as to what the hell was going on.
Eventually God came in, pink shirt and all, and immediately annoyed me by pulling up a seat with his back to Hubby.
He then proceeded to tell me about the pros and cons of having the booster therapy scheduled for the last four days of my treatment, waffling on about age groups to such an extent that I thought he was seriously going to tell us that they’d changed their mind and I wouldn’t be having them.
This arrogant man then practically accused me of being more concerned with the cosmetic appearance of my breast (should I decide to go ahead with the booster treatment) so Hubby and I waded verbally in saying we knew the risk and didn’t care as I was still alive!
I then had to be ‘marked up’ so that they could do a tracing to be used at the booster treatments to concentrate the dose directly on the original site of the cancer, and not the whole breast which is being treated now. I am likely to pucker, shrivel and ‘tan’, but we expect that, and the daily use of the moisturizer will help keep the skin supple.
Little note here which annoyed us both: he didn’t know which breast, where the lump had been, or where my access surgery was, all of which would have been in my notes.
With a dot or six of a blue marker, he was gone without so much as an apology for his tardiness, and the young nurse (she was lovely) finished up.
We were out by 10.45 and on our way to a cooked breakfast so that I wouldn’t have to cook at all today when we got back to the boat.
Today was so reminiscent of Hubby’s appointment with the Vein God in Lincolnshire where we were kept waiting for over an hour before being called in only to be shown to another
holding waiting room for a further forty-five minutes for a five minute interview telling us something we already knew, which was that nothing could be done to improve things. The supply of free coffee was not acceptable as a pacifier or an apology for being late that never materialised.
We appreciate medical time for God type people is sacrosanct.
But aren’t we humble mortals entitled to a little respect for turning up ON TIME?
It’s not exactly going to damn anyone to hell by saying ‘sorry for the delay’ is it?