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Getting medical help can be as painful as the condition you are suffering.
Really, waiting six hours in emergency to see a doctor for two minutes is crazy. There has to be a more efficient, more humane system.
It's the weekend between Christmas and new year - the worst time to come down with an ailment, but these things are often beyond our control.
I am suffering from an infected nodule on the back of my neck and overnight the swelling has spread and the pain intensified.
As I wait, more people amble in. Warwick has slit his hand with a knife, old Pedro needs his dressing changed, Fiona requests to see a gynaecologist.
During that long restless night, I imagine all sorts of diabolical scenarios including the nodule breaking free and lodging in my brain.
On the way to hospital, I give husband Garry strict instructions I am not to be resuscitated if I fall into a vegetative state. An overreaction? Absolutely, but I am overtired and over-anxious.
We're at emergency at Shoalhaven Hospital by 8am. There are just four patients already in the waiting room so we think we're on easy street - in and out in an hour, max.
In the cold light of day I realise that the condition is not life threatening so understand that more seriously ill patients will take precedence.
As I wait, more people amble in. Warwick has slit his hand with a knife, old Pedro needs his dressing changed, Fiona requests to see a gynaecologist.
Then the holidaymakers hobble in: young Matilda has twisted her knee while water skiing, Joseph has wrenched his ankle playing touch footy, Molly has broken her toe on a waterslide, Steve has jumped on the tail of a stingray hidden in sand and something has bitten baby Candice while camping.
Only Fiona needs to be admitted, the rest can be dealt with fairly quickly, except there is nothing quick about this system.
We're trapped in an emergency department when all most of us need is an outpatient clinic.
As the hours tick by you become aware of more serious conditions presenting, particularly among the older folk: Frank has blood in his urine and has brought a sample; Moira has high blood pressure and confides that both her parents died after suffering strokes: Paul says he's not having a heart attack but is experiencing stroke-like symptoms.
I am not deliberately listening to the litany of ills, but when you're sitting at close quarters in a waiting room it is difficult not to share their stories.
And so we wait. More people wander in, the triage nurse does her assessment and they join the queue. The room is getting crowded, we're running out of chairs.
Four hours into the marathon Warwick declares he's had enough and takes his wound home to deal with as best he can.
Then Frank gets a bit aggro with the front-line ladies and demands attention. He is mollified and resumes his seat.
Paul is equally concerned and sidles over to see if anything can be done to hasten the process.
About 1pm there is a flurry of movement. A bunch go in for X-rays, teen Moses has his head stitched after coming a cropper off his skateboard, and young Jeremy, who impaled his leg on a star picket on Christmas Day, has his wound reviewed.
Two o'clock and my name is finally called.
The nurse is efficient, the young English doctor reassuring. It takes two minutes.
I finally walk out six hours later with a script for strong antibiotics, advice about anti-inflammatories and an assurance I won't fall into a vegetative state.
Names have been changed.