By Dr Kathryn Fox
Kathryn Fox is an Australian medical doctor and bestselling crime writer, best known for her forensic thrillers featuring pathologist Dr Anya Crichton. Drawing on her medical expertise, she crafts gripping, authentic crime fiction and is also a passionate advocate for forensic medicine education and public engagement.
It’s frustrating sitting in a waiting room, watching the minutes tick past your appointment time. I know – because I’ve been that GP running late. And believe it or not, doctors and their families are patients too. We’ve all done the same clock-watching and muttering, “They think their time is more important than mine.”
When I ran late, it wasn’t poor time management, indifference or arrogance. And it definitely wasn’t greed. Most GPs aren’t secretly trying to squeeze in “just one more” before lunch – mainly because lunch rarely happens anyway. It was almost always because something unexpected – and important – had happened before your appointment.
A standard GP consult is booked for ten to fifteen minutes. On paper, that’s plenty of time for straightforward issues: a script renewal, a vaccination, a check-up or review. GPs also absorb the system’s loose ends: missing discharge summaries, late results, medication lists that don’t match reality. Some of the sorting out happens inside your appointment time. Then there’s paperwork – prescriptions, referrals, care plans, documentation, visits and calls about sick nursing home patients.
Most GPs hate running late. Skipping eating and drinking avoids bathroom breaks (efficiency at its finest) and staying back after hours to complete paperwork is more unseen, unpaid work.
General practice isn’t a conveyor belt, and patients don’t arrive with neatly packaged problems. GPs deal with what’s called undifferentiated illness, unlike specialists, who often see pre-diagnosed conditions. Family doctors see “something’s not right”. Sorting what’s minor from what’s dangerous takes time – and rushing risks missing something important. Longer appointments are available for good reason but are often snapped up in advance.
Someone reassures reception it’s “just a script”, then once inside, casually mentions chest pain. Or memory loss. Or palpitations. Or fainting episodes. Further questioning reveals that a parent died of something similar.
Those are red flags and can’t be safely deferred to “next time”.
A woman asking for the morning-after pill may quietly disclose she was sexually assaulted the night before. Suddenly the consultation becomes time-critical: assessing injury, infection risk, pregnancy risk, safety, and explaining options without re-traumatising her. She may not even have planned to tell anyone. She just trusted you in that moment.
If this were your daughter or partner, what would you want the doctor to do?
Unlike, say, an orthopaedic surgeon with a broken bone, you can’t separate the physical from the emotional. A routine exam can reveal an unexpected mass. A simple visit can end in tears and confessions. A screening mammogram reveals a suspicious lump. In seconds, a quick consult becomes complex. A simple rash can be meningitis, measles, or an allergy. Each is urgent but requires vastly different, prioritised treatment.
Sometimes emergencies are dramatic. I once recognised the distinctive smell of a gastrointestinal bleed in my waiting room. The patient didn’t look unwell, but within minutes he collapsed. I was on the floor resuscitating him while his terrified wife watched. Paramedics don’t instantly appear. When the ambulance finally left, there was no time to decompress – just the next patient complaining about the wait whining, “The bloke on the floor didn’t look that sick to me.” No matter what a doctor has just seen or had to deal with, they owe the next patient one hundred percent of their attention and care. Personal feelings are processed later.
I’ve also raced to the home of a patient who rang to say he was committing suicide. The police and ambulance met me there. No time to linger or process at the scene. It was straight back to the surgery with more patients waiting. Even if you wanted, you can’t disclose that to anyone to explain your ‘poor time management.’ You just have to listen to the patient vent, apologise and attend to their issue.
Other times emergencies are quieter: a disclosure of domestic violence, substance abuse, suicidal thoughts, or grief that’s finally surfaced. These conversations unfold slowly, after trust is built. A colleague who always boasted about running on time would say, “Come back when you’re not so upset,” and the staff would steer the patient – to me.
Acute crises don’t respect appointment books. A child with asthma struggling to breathe, chest pain in the waiting room. Or my personal favourite: the panicked parent who rushes in clutching a nappy filled with blue poo. It’s terrifying and for them, definitely constitutes an emergency. For the record: blueberries or coloured playdough are the usual and benign causes of blue poo. It always pays to look above the nappy to see if the infant is happy and non-plussed. Time taken is five to ten minutes you can’t get back. Even so, reassurance for that parent is vital.
Running behind isn’t because we don’t value your time – it’s usually because we value someone’s health more.
Australia’s Medicare system rewards short, high-volume medicine. But complex care, chronic disease and mental health don’t fit into short blocks. Good general practice simply takes longer.
If the doctor is running late, please don’t compile a list of ailments that you think deserve attention just because you’ve had to wait. You could just be part of the problem.
Instead, it may help to remember the delay could be because someone you never saw needed care that couldn’t wait.
One day, that person might be you.
Dr Kathryn Fox’s columns will appear every Monday and Thursday.