The Curious World of Waiting Rooms

Nobody plans a day out at A&E.

You don’t wake up in the morning thinking, “Lovely. Today I’d like to spend fourteen hours under fluorescent lighting, drinking questionable coffee and watching humanity slowly unravel around me.”

Yet there I was.

Feeling poorly.

Tired.

Slightly miserable.

And settling into what would become a fourteen-hour adventure at Wrexham Maelor Hospital.

Before I continue, I want to make one thing absolutely clear.

This isn’t a criticism of the NHS.

Quite the opposite.

The staff I encountered were incredible.

Kind.

Patient.

Professional.

And, judging by the expressions on some of their faces, running almost entirely on caffeine, determination and whatever supernatural force keeps NHS workers going long after normal human beings would have collapsed into a heap.

No, the funny part wasn’t the staff.

The funny part was the waiting room.

As a naturist, I’ve always found people fascinating.

When you spend time in naturist settings, you learn very quickly that we’re all remarkably similar underneath the labels, uniforms, fashion choices and social status.

A&E proved exactly the same point.

Within thirty minutes I’d identified the various tribes.

There was the Pacer.

The Pacer wasn’t seriously ill enough to stay seated but wasn’t well enough to go home.

They marched up and down the corridor like a caged tiger, occasionally checking their phone before pacing some more.

Then there was the Information Seeker.

Every ten minutes they’d approach reception and politely ask whether there was any update.

There never was.

Yet their optimism remained admirable.

Somewhere nearby sat the Amateur Diagnostician.

This individual had clearly spent six hours consulting the internet and was now absolutely convinced that everyone in the waiting room was suffering from an extremely rare tropical disease.

As the hours passed, the waiting room developed its own little community.

Complete strangers started talking.

People compared symptoms.

Shared snacks.

Discussed holidays.

Grandchildren.

Dogs.

The weather.

The weather again.

Then somehow circled back to dogs.

It’s remarkable how quickly human beings bond when trapped together for long enough.

One thing I always find interesting as a naturist is how much attention people give to appearances.

Yet after ten hours in A&E, nobody cares anymore.

Designer clothes become crumpled.

Perfect hairstyles surrender completely.

Make-up waves a little white flag and retreats.

Everyone ends up looking equally exhausted.

And honestly?

It’s quite refreshing.

The great leveller isn’t naturism.

It’s a fourteen-hour hospital wait.

At one point I caught sight of myself in a reflection and realised I looked like I’d survived a small natural disaster.

Everyone else looked much the same.

There was something oddly comforting about it.

Nobody was trying to impress anyone.

We were all simply human beings hoping to feel better.

The vending machine deserves special mention.

By hour six it had become the beating heart of the waiting room.

People approached it with the sort of anticipation normally reserved for lottery tickets.

Would it accept the card?

Would it dispense the drink?

Would the coffee taste vaguely like coffee?

The suspense was extraordinary.

Then there were the chairs.

Those legendary NHS plastic chairs.

I suspect they were originally designed by someone conducting advanced research into human discomfort.

By hour twelve, I had changed position so many times I felt like I was participating in an Olympic event.

Competitive Fidgeting.

Gold medal guaranteed.

Yet throughout all of this, the staff never stopped.

Nurses moved constantly.

Doctors appeared and disappeared at astonishing speed.

Healthcare assistants checked on people with warmth and patience.

Reception staff absorbed frustrations that weren’t really directed at them.

Everyone was working flat out.

As patients, we see the waiting.

They see the workload.

And after fourteen hours, I came away with a renewed appreciation for what they do every single day.

Eventually my name was called.

The moment felt strangely emotional.

I’d spent so long in the waiting room that I’d become invested in everyone’s stories.

I wanted updates.

Did the Pacer ever sit down?

Did the Information Seeker finally get an answer?

Did the Amateur Diagnostician discover a new tropical disease?

We’ll never know.

What I do know is this:

A&E is never fun.

Nobody wants to be there.

But if you’re forced to spend fourteen hours waiting, you’ll discover something surprisingly uplifting.

Under stress, stripped of routine, comfort and certainty, most people are actually quite decent.

And the NHS staff keeping everything together deserve every bit of gratitude we can give them.

Though if anyone from Wrexham Maelor is reading this, perhaps consider replacing those chairs.

My backside and I are still discussing the matter.