Wait time in doctor's waiting room tops one hour

If Dante's Inferno were rewritten and adapted to modern times, I am certain one of the circles of Hell would include having to sit endlessly in a doctor's waiting room. I did this twice yesterday. My first visit was to my oncologist for a routine followup exam. The time I routinely spend in his waiting room is without exception far more than I spend in the actual examination room. I don't mean I spend ten minutes in the waiting room and five in the exam room either. I mean I have sat in that waiting room flipping through outdated, dog-eared secondhand magazines for as long as 45 minutes before finally seeing a phlebotomist. That's another thing. With the enthusiasm fellow patients put down last year's copy of the AARP magazine when their name is called, you'd think they were jumping up to be the next contestant on The Price is Right. They're not. They're just getting blood drawn and then sent to an exam room to wait yet again.

I like to sit in view of the receptionist's window. My theory is that I can give her pathetic stares and guilt her into bumping my name up on the list. This seldom works, if ever. The magazine selection at my oncologist's office is limited, so I picked up the three-month old issue of ESPN magazine. Not because I thought I'd find something worth reading in it, but because it was the only thing in reach. I did happen upon a page with scantily clad women made up to look like members of KISS. One of them was missing a tooth. They were - get this - rollerderby queens. I thought that was a sport that went out with the Carter administration and The Partridge Family, but apparently it's back. A Google search even revealed the name of the local team, Atlanta Rollergirls. Note to self: get tickets.

Eventually I made my way into the lab room. This is where someone takes blood from you and records your weight. I always curse myself for wearing what I deem heavy clothes that day. I know it's silly. How many pounds can those cheap Target pants with the expando Fatty McFat wasitband really add to my weight? I'll spare you the number on the scale readout, but let's just say it was high. So high in fact that I had to scarf down two cinnamon rolls today just to alleviate the accompanying anxiety.

One of the phlebotomists I'm used to seeing no longer works there. While in the waiting room, I overheard that she was now working as a school nurse at a local high school. With the remaining phlebotomists I discuss my theory of their former coworker hooking up with a ne'er-do-well high school detentionee and having his love child. This was a joke of course, in that funny-'cause-its-probably-true sort of way. We all shared a laugh at her expense.

These days it seems like exam rooms in the doctor's office are smaller than a Guantanamo Bay prisoner's cell. I find I have to crack the door to ward off claustrophobia. On my recent visit my doctor saw me in no time flat. He told me that because the door was ajar, he couldn't tell whether or not there was a chart in the folder holder. When he rounded the corner to see if a chart was there, we made eye contact and he greeted me with a handshake and a smile. I think it was partially out of a sense of guilt or obligation, much the same way we're forced to converse with an aquaintance who catches us looking at them from across the room, but so what! This helped me get in there and out.

My oncologist is a kind and well-mannered individual. He is one of the few medical practitioners I have ever seen in my 33 years whose touch alone feels truly healing. He volunteers for About.com answering questions on cancer and Hinduism. I enjoy reading his posts almost as much as I do chatting with him during my semi-annual visit. His accent reveals hints of Hindi or Gidjarti, but his writings denote evidence of heavy British schooling. He spells behavior with a superfluous U and occasionally employs Britspeak words like "erstwhile." During my visit we discuss my wife's pregnancy, he feels my testicles and we part ways.

My next doctor's appointment was a routine followup with my urologist a few hours later. I arrived at five minutes before two o'clock to find the door locked and four other people waiting outside. The downside of waiting at the urologist's office is that you suspect you're going to have to give a urine sample so you try and avoid going to the bathroom beforehand. This can sometimes lead to prolonged agony that for many just aggravates the whole reason they're seeing the urologist in the first place. I had a diet soda in hand and probably fifteen minutes time to wait, so I decided to go ahead of time, knowing I'd still be able to go again if they wanted a specimen. When I returned from the men's room, the door was unlocked.

I signed in and sat down, again looking for something to read. At Georgia Urology the reading material is limited to Golf Digest, Atlanta Style and Design, a copy of Children's Bible Stories and some flyers for incontinence and erectile dysfunction. I briefly perused a flyer on the drug Flomax so as to avoid having to make eye contact or idle chitchat with any oldsters with weak bladders. Again, I sat in full view of the receptionist's window and the hallway that leads to the exam rooms.

In the room with me were the four people I saw outside the door and a few stragglers making their way in to the office. One couple stood out to me. She sat next to a stroller, and he was redfaced and noticeably uncomfortable. "What will they do in pre-op?" I heard him ask his wife. She assured him that they would probably brief him on what's going to happen and take his blood. I guessed vasectomy, but there could have been a number of reasons he was there. Whatever his reason, he wasn't volunteering much information. No one does at the urologist's office. At the cancer doctor you might overhear someone talking about their recent surgery or chemotherapy. Strangely, no one shares their tales of not being able to get it up or make it to the bathroom in time.

Sitting a few seats to my right was an older couple. The woman wore a scowl and seldom looked up from her knitting. At one point, a young pregnant woman walked in with a husband and toddler and the older woman mumbled that they were too young to be there. "Young people have problems too," her husband said. The pregnant woman's husband must have had a urology fastpass because he got called soon after getting there. His wife entertained their daughter by pointing out pictures in Atlanta Style and Design. The girl looked to be about two, old enough to say some recognizable words, but the only thing she'd say I could understand was an occasional mama. Then I realized that when the mother was talking to the girl, she was speaking German. Once I discovered that, I did understand the girl when she said "ein Hund" and followed it up with what sounded like doggy. The old spinster wasn't as impressed as I was with a bilingual toddler. She put down her knitting, picked up Children's Bible Stories and handed it to the mom. The proselytized preggers smiled, flipped through a couple pages and went back to pointing out pictures in her magazine.

In the time I sat in that room, I could have done a week's worth of grocery shopping, gone out to lunch and learned to read Chinese. The nurse must have called everyone's name but mine. I watched countless people come in, get called and then leave in the time I was still sitting there. Occasioanlly my doctor emerged with a patient. Once he waved at me and gave a look that seemed to say this waiting's a bitch, ain't it? Finally I went up to the window and asked if I had arrived at the wrong time. I didn't think I had and this was really just a polite way of telling them I'd been waiting and wanted to see a doctor and soon. Sure enough, she informed me, my appointment wasn't at 2:00. It was at 3:00. I pled stupidity and my name was called shortly after.

My urologist is an all around great guy. I know I said virtually the same thing about my oncologist, but it's true. Sure, my urologist doesn't use words like "erstwhile", and his knowledge on Hinduism is probably limited, but he's good at listening and sympathizing. When he found out Elaine was pregnant, he called to congratulate us. When I popped into his office to show off ultrasound pictures, he stopped what he was doing and came out to see them. He may boast a New York ivy league alma mater but his demeanor is down to earth. Furthermore, at the end of my appointment he told me I was one of his favorite patients. What a guy! During my visit we discuss my wife's pregnancy, he feels my testicles and we part ways.

Between the two visits, I spent over an hour and a half just waiting. I know that receiving a diagnosis doesn't happen as quickly as receiving a fast food double cheeseburger. I also know I'm not the only person requiring my doctors' time, and some patients (most in fact) probably have more pressing issues than I. However, can't we come up with some better system to shorten the time we're required to spend in the waiting room? The ennui of it all! And the reading material! I need to order my doctor a subscription to Maxim magazine.