Orthopaedic outpatient clinics

There cannot be many places more stressful, disempowering, or generally desolate, than an orthopaedic outpatients clinic. For reasons of convenience, these tend almost always to be located very close to Accident and Emergency, as of course many A and E admissions are related to falls people have had that have fractured wrists or fingers or broken arms or legs. An outpatient coming for a timed appointment, always has to give way to A and E admissions, and the registrars and consultants you are there to see, also have to see the A and E patients. All of which means, that the average waiting time on a good day is usually around an hour. Forty five minutes, if you're lucky. On a bad day it can be up to three hours. And that's three hours before you're called to a cubicle. Not, three hours till you're actually dealt with. If you need an x ray, you have to queue behind A and E patients to have one. Then wait another hour till the overtaxed registrar has a chance to look at it and see what the problem is. By the time you are finally seen by him (they are all male, these registrars), he is exhausted, and so are you. All the sensible questions you had lined up have disappeared into the cotton wool that your brain has turned into; you are overwhelmed with lassitude and perilously close to tears.

So, orthopaedic outpatients needs a coping strategy. I've had to go to this clinic more times than I care to remember and each time in the early days, I would tell myself, no that was just a freak day. This one will be better. But it isn't. It never is. So after around the 4th or 5th day wasted in the underground bunker - oh did I also mention that the clinic I attend is in the basement, which means no natural light and no mobile phone reception - also nowhere to get a cup of tea without climbing stairs, which if you are on crutches, strongly likely if you are an orthopaedic patient, then no hope in hell of getting there, or queueing for half an hour for a packed lift that has no seating? - anyway, after the 4th or 5th time I decided I needed a game plan. First, provisions. Three to four hours in that clinic meant I would invariably get hungry or just really, really need a cup of tea. So, thermos flask, decent sized sandwich filled with things that would not fall out and stain my t shirt (ie no egg mayonnaise, tuna mayonnaise, or anything remotely wet), a bag of raw vegetables to snack on, a bag of nuts for when the veg ran out, and a large bar of Cadburys Dairy Milk if all of the above had been despatched and I was still waiting. Secondly, exposure to light. Three hours in a lightless bunker sends you do-lally. The only way through is to stock up on light. How to do this? My hospital is one of the ugliest buildings in the world. But, it is located just 5 minutes' walk from Hampstead Heath, which is beautiful, full of birds with wonderful song in their throats, and loads of wild flowers to gawp at. I decide to walk to hospital, from my house, which is about an hour away on foot, through the Heath. By the time I get there, I am muscle weary but the soul is full of nature. And finally, Things To Do. I download every possible publication I want to read, on to my I Pad. You can't listen to music in orthopaedic outpatients. Miss a nurse calling your name and you're stuffed. Name sent to the bottom of the list. So it has to be books, or games, anything you can do that does not require headphones. I download creative apps that stop my brain from shrivelling, which a 45 min wait outside an x ray theatre can do to you. On my 6th visit I put the Grand Plan into action. I walk to the hospital. I rest, gratefully and feeling fabulous, in my chair. I take out my sandwich and my thermos of tea. I switch on my IPad and open up The Times. I take a bite and settle down to read the opinion piece. And what happens? I'm called. After five minutes. This. Is Sod's Law.