I check my phone for what must be the hundredth time. 11:42 PM. Three hours since I walked through the double doors of A&E, clutching my side, hoping the pain wasn’t as serious as it felt. The screen of my phone fades to black, reflecting back a face that looks paler than usual, shadows clinging to my eyes. I shove it back into my pocket and let out a slow breath.
The waiting room is filled with a dull hum of voices, murmuring conversations blending with the occasional cough, sniffle, or groan. The overhead fluorescent lights cast everything in a sickly yellow glow, making the sterile white walls seem even colder. Every seat is occupied, some by people who look visibly in pain, others by those accompanying them—partners, parents, friends.
Across from me, a woman holds a bloodied tissue to her nose, eyes closed, her head tilted back against the wall. A young lad in a tracksuit sits next to her, scrolling on his phone, uninterested. A&E is a great equaliser. People from every walk of life gather here in the dead of night, waiting for their turn, waiting for relief.
A child somewhere to my left lets out a loud wail, and I glance over. His mother, looking exhausted, rubs his back in slow circles, whispering something in his ear. His little legs kick against the plastic chair, trainers tapping out a rhythm against the floor. His cries are high-pitched and relentless, a stark contrast to the otherwise subdued atmosphere. A few people shift uncomfortably, but no one says anything. We all understand.
I adjust myself on the hard chair, wincing as the pain in my side flares again. It started as a dull ache earlier in the day, something I thought would pass, but by the evening, it was sharp and insistent. A call to 111 had led me here, where I was checked in at reception and told to wait. And so, I wait.
A woman near the reception desk is growing increasingly agitated. She’s been standing there for at least ten minutes, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her voice rises, cutting through the low hum of the room. “It’s been five hours. How much longer?”
The receptionist, a tired-looking woman with a ponytail, barely reacts. She must hear this every night. “We’re seeing patients in order of priority. We appreciate your patience.”
The woman scoffs, shaking her head, but doesn’t argue further. Instead, she marches back to her seat, muttering under her breath.
The A&E doors swing open, and a paramedic wheels in a man strapped to a trolley. His face is bloodied, his eyes unfocused. A nurse rushes over immediately, speaking in hushed but urgent tones. The waiting room watches, some pretending not to, others staring openly. The man is whisked away through the double doors to the treatment area, past the rest of us who are still sitting. No waiting for him.
I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes for a moment. The noise of the room fades slightly as exhaustion tugs at me. I wonder how long it will be before I’m seen. An hour? Two? More? There’s no way of knowing.
Somewhere nearby, a vending machine whirs to life as someone buys a packet of crisps. The faint crunching follows, mingling with the distant sound of a TV mounted on the wall playing muted news reports. I consider getting something myself, but I don’t want to risk missing my name being called. It’s an irrational fear, really. The speaker system is loud enough that even those drifting in and out of sleep hear it. But still, I stay put.
The pain in my side pulses again, sharp enough to make me inhale sharply. I shift, trying to ease it, but it’s no use. My hand rests over the area instinctively, fingers pressing gently. It doesn’t help much. I remind myself that if it were truly life-threatening, I wouldn’t be sitting out here. That’s the only comfort A&E provides—the knowledge that if you’re still waiting, you’re not the worst off in the room.
Minutes stretch into hours. I watch as people come and go. A drunk man is brought in by the police, his speech slurred, his laughter too loud. He sways as he walks, struggling to keep himself upright. A nurse greets him with the sort of patience that must take years to develop. She guides him into a chair, speaking softly, while the police linger near the entrance, watching.
Another patient, a middle-aged man clutching his stomach, groans and doubles over in his seat. His wife rubs his back, whispering reassurances. His face is clammy, sweat beading on his forehead. A nurse eventually appears to take his blood pressure and ask a few questions. He looks worse than I feel, so I know he’ll be seen before me. I don’t mind.
A nurse in blue scrubs appears in the doorway leading to the treatment area. A clipboard in her hands, she clears her throat before calling out a name. A teenage girl with a bandaged hand stands, glancing at her mother before following the nurse through the doors. The waiting room settles again.
I glance at my phone. 2:07 AM. Over four hours now. The thought of sleep is laughable at this point. I shift again, my body aching in new ways from sitting too long. The pain in my side hasn’t eased, but I’ve almost gotten used to it.
Somewhere near the entrance, the automatic doors slide open again, letting in a gust of cold air as a new wave of patients arrives. Some walk in under their own power, others are helped. The cycle continues.
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. There’s no telling how much longer I’ll be here. Another hour? Two? More?
A&E isn’t a place for certainty. It’s a place for waiting. And so, I wait.
This is a fictional account intended to provide insight into the patient experience in A&E. While inspired by real-life situations, it is not based on any specific case or individual.