The clock on the wall reads 2:15 AM. Another long shift. Another endless queue of patients, each with their own story, each with their own urgency. I take a deep breath, pressing my fingers into my temples for a brief moment before returning my attention to the screen in front of me. The waiting times are stretching longer by the minute, and I already know the next person to approach the desk will have the same question I’ve heard a hundred times tonight: “How much longer?”
I barely have time to brace myself before she steps forward. The woman who had been pacing in the waiting room for hours now. Her arms are folded tight across her chest, her face taut with frustration. I keep my voice steady as I greet her, though I already know where this conversation is going.
“It’s been five hours,” she says, her voice edged with impatience. “How much longer?”
I’ve dealt with worse. Much worse. Drunken aggression, outright shouting, even threats. But there’s something almost more exhausting about this—this quiet frustration, the simmering anger that can’t be solved with anything but time. Time we don’t have enough of.
“I understand your frustration,” I reply, my tone even, practiced. “But we’re seeing patients in order of priority.”
Her scoff is immediate. “It’s ridiculous.”
She’s not wrong. But it’s not my fault either.
I resist the urge to sigh. Explaining the triage system never seems to help. People understand it in theory, but when they’re the ones waiting, when their loved ones are the ones in pain, rationality fades. I don’t blame them for that. But I can’t change the reality either.
Behind me, the doors to the treatment area swing open again, and I catch a glimpse of the paramedics wheeling in another patient. Head injury. Blood. That person won’t be waiting. The woman sees it too, and her frustration is palpable.
“This is a joke,” she mutters under her breath as she walks away.
I let out a breath and glance at the queue forming behind her. A man clutching his stomach, a young girl with a swollen wrist, a drunk man muttering to himself. They all want answers. They all want relief. And I am the face they direct it toward.
I remind myself why I do this job. It’s not just about checking names and filling forms. It’s about managing expectations, about holding patience in a place that has none. It’s about offering a calm voice in a sea of frustration.
Even when I am exhausted. Even when I know the night is far from over.
By 3:00 AM, the waiting room is quieter but not empty. The crying child from earlier has finally dozed off against his mother’s shoulder, his small chest rising and falling with the rhythmic exhaustion of a long night. The drunk man has stopped his incoherent mumbling and is now slouched forward in his chair, head bobbing. The woman from earlier sits with her arms crossed, her knee bouncing up and down, her patience visibly fraying.
A doctor emerges through the heavy doors leading to the treatment area and calls a name. A middle-aged man in a tracksuit stands, his wife helping him up. He moves slowly, clutching his stomach, but he is moving. The rest of the waiting room watches him disappear through the doors, envy and desperation flickering in their tired eyes.
I tap at the keyboard, updating the patient log. We’re behind schedule, but that’s nothing new. The night shifts blur together—each one marked by an endless cycle of suffering, waiting, and more waiting. Some people in this room have been here for six, maybe even seven hours. Some will be here until dawn.
The doors open again. This time, a new wave of arrivals: two paramedics pushing a gurney, a teenager clutching his wrist, his friend trailing behind him, and a woman who looks like she’s about to collapse from exhaustion. I steel myself for another round of explanations, another night of managing emotions, and another stretch of time where I must be both a gatekeeper and a source of patience.
“Can I help you?” I ask as the teenager steps forward, holding his wrist awkwardly. I reach for a form, knowing it by heart, asking the same questions I always do.
“Name?”
He mumbles something, and I type it into the system. His friend, shuffling nervously, asks, “Is he going to be waiting for hours?”
I don’t sugarcoat it. “I can’t say exactly, but there are patients ahead of him. He’ll be seen as soon as possible.”
The teenager sighs, exchanging a look with his friend. I see this all the time—people calculating whether their pain is bad enough to warrant the wait, whether they should just leave and go home instead. Some do. Some return hours later, when things are worse.
As I finish checking him in, I glance back at the woman still pacing by the chairs. Her frustration hasn’t abated, but she’s quieter now, resigned in the way only truly exhausted people are. She catches my gaze and shakes her head slightly. It’s the same unspoken message I’ve seen before—why does it have to be this way?
I wish I had an answer.
At 4:00 AM, the first signs of morning creep in. The outside world is still dark, but there’s a shift in the air. The exhaustion is heavier, the hours stretching impossibly long. I’m hungry, but there’s no time to eat. I sip cold tea from my flask, willing it to keep me awake.
More patients come in, more names are added to the list. A nurse stops by the desk to update me. One of the doctors has gone home sick, leaving them even more short-staffed. My stomach sinks. The waiting times are only going to get worse.
A young man approaches, tentative. “Sorry, but do you know how much longer my mum will have to wait?”
I check the screen. “She’s in the queue, but it’s still a long wait. I’m really sorry.”
He nods, clearly frustrated but polite about it. “Thanks anyway.”
It’s not a good answer, but it’s the only one I have.
By 6:00 AM, the waiting room is quieter. Some people have been seen, some have given up and gone home, and some still wait. The night has crawled by, but it hasn’t stopped. It never does.
As my shift nears its end, I try to shake the heaviness from my shoulders. It’s hard not to carry this weight home. The exhaustion, the frustration, the never-ending cycle of need and limited resources. I remind myself of the patients who were seen tonight, the ones who needed urgent care and got it. That’s what matters.
A new receptionist arrives, fresh-faced but soon to be just as drained as I am. I give her a brief rundown of the night’s events, then grab my coat. One more deep breath, one more glance at the waiting room, and I step outside into the cold morning air.
The hospital doors close behind me, but the waiting continues inside. It always does.
This is a fictional account intended to provide insight into the perspective of an A&E receptionist. While inspired by real-life situations, it is not based on any specific case or individual.