The waiting room was already half-full when we arrived and stood behind a construction worker sporting a deep cut on one blood-spotted hand. He was given a voucher and referred to the nearby White Cross accident and emergency clinic.
Less than half an hour later, the line of people would be snaking out the door. We are told to expect a wait of between six to eight hours - five minimum.
Despite that, a lot of people - including us - decide to stay because we need to. In our case, my relative’s health history and the symptoms he’s suffering mean he needs medical attention - and a CT scan.
There are all sorts of people waiting to be seen. Elderly parents, couples, parents with young children and the two or three people there alone.
On the day we’re there, many are young parents with toddlers who have a distinctive high-pitched cough. There are children crying. One or two people we are sitting with are in obvious physical pain. But there is also laughter and kindness, like the woman who offers food to her neighbour.
At least three couples arrive with very young babies. One of those families will leave after about the three-hour waiting mark. Others give up too, with the receptionist left calling out names later for people who are no longer there.
A guy with a nasty gash on the side of his face arrives at one point and is taken straight through. “At least he gets to go in quickly,” someone says with an awkward laugh.
We are seen by a nurse about 11.30am. Lunch is a packet of Grainwaves and a Coke Zero from the vending machine.
A doctor sees us about 3.45pm. We are told they are short five doctors today and there is also a long waiting time for a CT scan.
There’s only so much time you can dedicate to Sudoku puzzles and crosswords in old magazines before you start contemplating life.
The crossword I’m working on has a question about the name of the Police Commissioner and I can’t understand why Andrew “Costner” doesn’t fit into the brackets. I realise later I’ve confused Coster with The Bodyguard.
We finally get called in at 5.30pm and I leave the unfinished crossword on the table.
After the first hour passes by, I have to ask a nurse what time we can expect to go in for a CT scan. The answer is always kind but doesn’t actually answer the question: “Hopefully soon”.
It’s the same answer we’re given by another nurse about three hours after that. Should’ve brought the crossword.
By 9pm, it’s finally our turn with the big CT scan machine - the results of which would come just over an hour later alongside the magic words: “Okay to go home.”
We walk through the corridors and through the door that opens into the ED waiting room - packed with people, settling in for a long wait. A woman looks up at us and says: “Manuia le po”. Have a good night.
And now to pay for the parking ticket...
