Guess where I am? At the human hospital attending a sick friend’s bedside (his family’s out of town and unavailable). It’s been twelve long hours and counting—five of them spent in the waiting room in the pre-dawn hours (when things are supposed to be slowest).

Indeed, the waiting room was nearly empty when we arrived (and there was little of that behind-the scenes bustling that indicates a slammed shift). But somehow, here we are, waiting for the doc to come see us—a full turn of the clock later.

I often wonder how this happens. What, exactly, goes into a human ER wait? Picture the pie chart with its divisible slices marking the time. Is one-third the waiting room piece and another half-pie spent waiting for the doc? I certainly hope so in this case—that’d mean I only have a little sliver left. Wishful thinking, for sure.

How can it possible go so slow for all us ER victims (even when no ambulances are pulling up and no critical cases seem to be on the floor at the time)? And now the nurses are laughing and giggling gleefully—always a frustrating harbinger of even heftier servings of that distasteful time-pie.

And here’s where the former emergency vet in me launches into a comparison of how much wait-time I consider acceptable in my ER versus what I’m getting served now. But that’s not only an unfair match-up, it also doesn’t reflect too kindly on most vet ERs, given the apples and oranges nature of these two disparate healthcare systems and the long wait times I hear tell about.

Still, I’m a stickler for efficiency in my practice and I can’t stand to see idle chatter while an X-ray needs to be taken or blood needs to be drawn. I detest client wait-times! Moreover, I truly stress when an emergency has to take precedence over waiting clients or when people arrive late and throw me off my game.

My staff thinks it’s almost a pathology, this time thing of mine. And they might be right, but I see it more as a Golden Rule kind of thing. Because I hate to wait—so how can I expect my own clients to suffer the same?

To assuage the stress, I travel with knitting, a book and my computer at all times—just in case. And here in Miami, just in case is just about always. This ER experience is clearly no exception.

While writing this post, that pie has grown by another forty-five minutes. At least I’ve managed a couple of semi-constructive items in that time—of which not strangling the still-screeching-with-hilarity staff is perhaps the most notable accomplishment.

PS: OK so this is one thing that never happens in an animal ER: Apparently, no doc is planning to come into this room and perform a physical examination. The nurse practitioner, much as I might have respected her judgment otherwise, has basically invalidated her usefulness based on her discharge recommendation—without ever performing a full physical. (And this patient can’t even walk and can hardly speak for his severe weakness.) I’m certainly not leaving here until he gets the physical I’m sure his insurance will be paying for anyway.