When I was a kid, a visit to the doctor’s always stood out as a memorable occasion.  Although, it is not so much the doctor whom I remember, as it is his waiting room.

In my memory, it was always evening-time when I visited the doctor; always dark outside; often cold.  The waiting room would be rather dark and cold, too.  The surgery was located in a big, old Victorian house; suitably austere, matching the gravity of its purpose; the waiting room, a large, square room, wood-panelled, with chairs set against the edges of the walls, upon which sat a diverse cross-section of humanity, sharing nothing in common beyond a passing brush with ill-health, quietly waiting as though for the start of a dance, which has not yet got into full-swing.

Although, there were chairs set against the edge of all four walls, it was conspicuous that the patients tended to cluster only on the chairs set against three of these walls.  I mean, the fourth wall?  It would be madness to sit there, right?

Except, of course, there is always one.  Looking rather self-conscious, wondering why he was being treated as Johnny Contagion, one man sat alone, empty seats to either side of him.

Above his head, high up on the side of this fourth wall, was a rather incongruous transparent plastic box and, printed on the front of the box, the names of the four doctors who practiced at the surgery.  This box was the focus of all eyes in the room.  Except one.  Johnny Contagion.  My eyes were focused on the name of Dr O’Connor.  His name was printed second from the top.  He was my doctor.

Despite everyone’s close attention, it was still a surprise when the buzzer sounded.  Accompanying the buzzer, the name of one of the doctors was suddenly illuminated on the plastic box.  Not Dr O’Connor this time.  From the opposite side of the room, one of the wall-flowers rose to his feet, attached a little, white, circular token to a peg-board on the same fourth wall, and disappeared through a heavy, wooden door to the promise of restored health, which lay beyond. 

There were four similar peg-boards on the fourth wall; matching the names of the four doctors listed on the plastic box.  And on each peg-board were disc-tags of a different colour: white; yellow; green; and red.

I looked at the little, circular token that I held in my hand.  My token was not white.  It was yellow.  It had been given to me by the receptionist when I arrived.  It had the number nine printed on it.  And underneath the ‘9’ was a faint line, to make sure that it was read the correct way up.  No chance to jump the queue as a mistaken number six.  On the peg-board, I saw the corresponding hook with number nine printed above it.  In my mind, I practised standing up and putting my token on the hook.  I wanted to assure myself that I knew how to act correctly when the buzzer sounded and it was my turn to step into the spotlight.

The buzzer sounds again.  A name is illuminated.  Still not Dr O’Connor.  I watch to see who amongst my compatriots will stand up.  No one does.  Someone has missed their queue.  My money is on Johnny Contagion.  The same buzzer sounds again.  More angrily?  Or is it my imagination?  Still, Johnny Contagion does not react.  Someone coughs discreetly; catches his eye; indicates the board above his head.  He rises and disappears through the heavy, wooden door, without putting his token on the peg-board.  He has thrown the entire system into disarray.

I wait, ever-more-eager for my moment.  I want to be up out of my seat before the buzzer has finished sounding; before the name Dr O’Connor has started to dim; want to place my disc-tag over the correct peg without the slightest hesitation of hand.  This is a competition, and I want to win.

After all, this is the 1970s.  Before the advent of the home computer, the combination of a low-tech, flashing, buzzing plastic box and adding numbered counters to a peg-board was what passed for entertainment.  Give it a catchy name, and this could easily be marketed commercially as a kid’s toy.  Doctor’s Waiting Room.  The must-have Christmas board-game.

Nowadays, of course a visit to the GP is all different. 

It is much worse.

But, do you know, I think that I could forgive the fact that nowadays so many barriers are placed between the GP and their patient––demoralising call-queues; receptionists; ridiculously long waits for an appointment; digital screens; trainee doctors; I could forgive that when you finally get to see a doctor, they spend five times as long looking at their computer screen as they do examining you; I could even forgive that GPs no longer hand out antibiotics like sweets in the way that they used to do––but, really, why does anyone actually go to a GP if it is not to get antibiotics?  For everything else there is A&E; and even forgive that so many previously-undertaken tasks appear to have been devolved either to the pharmacist or back onto the patient––home blood pressure kits; I could forgive it all, if they had still kept the flashing, buzzing plastic box and the numbered peg-boards in the waiting room, which brought back memories of when I was a kid.

But they are gone, too.  And, without them, the experience of a visit to the GP is just a desolate wasteland.

© Beery Sue

Beery Sue is feeling slightly out of sorts.