Rising East Online

A Visit To The Hospital

Queuing at Queen’s

—Matt Challis

At first glance I thought I’d been dropped off at a shopping centre. It looks like Lakeside; it feels like Lakeside; it could be Lakeside – if you ignore all the sick people.

I do admire its wide open plan. Equally impressive are the mega-escalator for those less mobile and the epic coffee shop for those less awake. The brightness of it all is taking my mind off my injury; nonetheless this is the new Queen’s Hospital, not the shopping centre I first thought it was.

Seeing no signs for the fracture clinic I’m forced to ask where it is. When I eventually find the entrance there is a line of people spilling out of it. Clearly, queuing for Led Zeppelin tickets was just a rehearsal for the waiting time here.

The queue begins to shift and the tail finally makes its way into the waiting room. Once inside, having come from the most spacious entrance to a building since the Millennium Dome, I wonder what the hospital designers were thinking. It’s packed with people. There’s hardly any space to move and everyone is feeling cramped. What’s more the queue splits the room in two, blocking the signs which might otherwise tell you whether you are in the right place.

I make sure I’m where I’m supposed to be, then look round for a seat. Not as straightforward as you might think. Those on crutches have to stand while friends and relatives of other patients occupy seats. A middle aged man sits holding his bandaged hand while his wife mutters in his ear and rattles jewellery that looks like leftovers from Romford market. She stops talking, looks around, then pulls out a copy of Hello and gets down to important matters. Meanwhile I am still standing.

On one leg.

(If the other one wasn’t broken, I wouldn’t be here.)

I suppose it’s not her fault the room is too small and there are not enough seats. But the highly paid officials who designed it, should have known that fitting scores of patients into what feels like a toilet-cubicle may make them impatient.

There’s one now. Telling his son to hold their position he uses his broad shoulders to muscle through and get himself first in line. I can’t hear what the nurse says but he seems slightly unhappy about having to wait. His finger pierces the air and his facial expression could scare the Exorcist. But what our angry father doesn’t realise is that everybody else here is in the same position. And no matter how angry he gets, there’s nothing to be gained by muscling in. Eventually he retires and goes back to looking round the tiny room like the rest of us.

This time it’s only an hour before my name is called, unlike last week’s appointment when I was there long enough to grow a beard. The hospital service here is much like a traffic jam. You can stand or sit around for ages waiting to see what’s causing the hold up, but once we finally get to know, the traffic begins to flow and everybody around you is happy to be moving along. The nurses treat you with respect and generally the staff are professional and considerate. In view of the stress they’re put through on a daily basis, this calls for considerable effort on their part.

The problem with the hospital is that it seems to have been designed without any thought other than it looking nice and modern. From the outside it does look impressive, but when you find yourself sitting silently in the labyrinth of corridors you soon forget about how it looks and worry more about your bruises. A larger waiting room with a TV or a table of magazines, might have kept some people happy. But instead whoever designed the hospital plumped for a grand piano in the lobby. A grand gesture, perhaps, but smaller practicalities would have been of greater help.

Matt Challis is a recent graduate of BA (Hons) Journalism, University of East London

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