If you’ve ever sat in a hospital waiting room for hours, you know the feeling—time slows, patience thins, and you start bargaining with yourself: If they call my name in the next ten minutes, I swear I’ll stop complaining.
That was me on a Monday morning at the University of St. Bart’s Medical Centre.
Before I even left home, I’d asked my Google Assistant, “What does the word triage mean?”
He replied: “Triage is the process of prioritizing patients based on the severity of their condition, especially in hospital emergency rooms.”
Thanks, Gemini AI. Foreshadowing much?
It had been years since I last set foot here—back when it was MSBMC. I debated following local wisdom: Get there early to beat the rush. But in St. Bart’s, with one main hospital, there’s never a “good” time to go.
Still, I made it by 8:30 a.m.
For most working-class folks, the hospital is the only option. Private doctors start at USD 75, and depending on the name on the door, that number climbs fast.
When I arrived, the waiting area was nearly full. I gave my name, number, and date of birth. Standard stuff. Then I sat, watching the room fill with coughing, sighing, and silent patience.
Around 9:30, I heard my name. Finally, I thought. Silly me—it was just triage. A nurse in blue scrubs took my blood pressure, asked a few questions, then handed me a plastic cup for a urine sample. I followed instructions, returned it, and went back to my seat.
By 12:36 p.m., I’d finished a book, eaten my snacks, charged my phone behind my seat, and quietly observed the slow build of frustration. Some people had been there since 4 a.m. The cursing started. I thought, WTF. When will I get seen? I have rehearsals later. That’s when I started writing this.
The Waiting Room: A Character of Its Own
If you’ve never experienced a Caribbean hospital waiting room, picture this: strangers becoming comrades in discomfort, united by boredom, pain, and impatience.
I kept to myself. The man next to me sipped hot tea. We shared hours of silence. He tried conversation once or twice, but my body was speaking a language I didn’t understand.
Triage isn’t a straight line—it’s a living puzzle. Someone with chest pains goes before someone with a sore toe. One man, furious, announced he’d been there since 7 a.m., his leg too swollen to fit in a shoe. He hadn’t seen the seven ambulances arrive while we were waiting.
He ranted about his army and police service, his taxes, and how he “deserved better.” And maybe he did. Maybe we all do. But triage doesn’t care about résumés—it cares about urgency.
By 1:58 p.m., I was finally called.
Dr. Ben—a soft-spoken, bearded gentleman with streaks of grey—handled my case. Questions, observations, and a physical exam. My urine test came back negative. No pregnancy—thank God.
Then came the vaginal exam and finger test. Professional, thorough… and never my favorite. That’s when I remembered what my gynecologist had once mentioned: small fibroids. Now, they seemed to have company—possible ovarian cysts.
The ultrasound that followed was the longest I’ve ever had. But thorough. And for that, I was grateful.
Educating the Public
The issue isn’t always staff not caring—it’s that patients don’t understand how care is prioritized.
Yes, you’re in pain. But so is the person next to you. And the man in the ambulance. And the woman delivering her baby.
Behind the curtain, nurses and doctors juggle nonstop decisions—who to see first, which tests can wait, which results are urgent. They’re under immense pressure. And they’re human.
What if we Googled “triage” before we complained? What if we asked a nurse to explain the system? What if we noticed the twelve-hour shifts they endure?
Today, all I could do was wait, watch, and wonder:
How many patients were treated? How many left unseen? How many, like me, learned that fibroids and cysts can creep up quietly?
Coming Next: Part Two – The Exam Room and Everything After
I thought the hardest part was the waiting. But behind a closed door in a quiet exam room, I learned the real journey was just beginning. From unexpected tests to quiet revelations, Part Two dives into what happened after they finally called my name.
Because sometimes, the answers we don’t expect… are the ones our bodies have been whispering all along.
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