Attending medical appointments in a city over many years, I am used to tardy public transport and germy waiting rooms. 

Not COVID-19’s Telehealth.

A technology which soon fills me with dread.

I start small.  The GP surgery telehealth is tame.  Kind of.  One very anxious wait to see if the process will work, a link (sent to me by SMS at the scheduled appointment time or thereabout), a couple of permissions to grant, and a second or two staring at the screen, gets me the flickering techno-yellowed face of my GP (with/without sound depending on ?).  

Then for the next while, I focus on her lips lest her words become lost in periodic split-second freezes and the robotic echo of my own voice.  All whilst reminding myself that physical distance does not equal emotional distance.  Thankfully, I have a relationship with my GP – which is the one thing that saves the technology. 

GP telehealth is useable.  Just. 

So, when the hospital telehealth appointment is made, I am (over) confident that I can smash this.  

However. 

Unlike the GP one, this link arrives in an email sent almost two weeks ahead of the scheduled appointment.  Sent so early it lulls me into a comforting sense of security - I have stacks of time to go back and read this properly.  Something I never do because of that unexpected SMS reminder which arrives, complete with a link, the day before appointment day.  Confused, I assume the SMS link is the one to use, and that it works just like the GP one. Therefore, there is no longer any reason to read that email. 

After all – I only have to press a link.  Right here on my phone.

So.  Coolly confident, five minutes before the appointment time I press on that SMS link.  And nothing happens, as the system cannot connect without the app which required download from the Apple store which requires a password I never use, stored in a place only vaguely remembered.

Having located the email, I skim its list of communication options.  Immediately, I reject the laptop google chrome suggestion, unsure how to access this chrome thing.  With no time to work out if the laptop has a camera, Firefox clearly is not a goer either.

With the only other option download of that app, thinking smart, I figure that with its larger screen an ipad will be superior to phone.

The ipad which refuses to connect, even when the app sits tauntingly on the screen.

Hurriedly switching back to phone, I fearfully stab at buttons glancing back and forth to the emailed instructions, desperate to get to this appointment.  I am like a bus, running horrifically late.

It is at this point that I notice the emailed warnings.

All three of them.

First to pop into my line of sight is the one about massive data usage and contacting my internet provider if that is a problem.  Stunned, I have no idea if there is an impending problem.  I have no idea about data usage at all – I assume it has something to do with the phone battery, which is pretty well charged.  Something I had thought to do.

Then, noting that I will be on hold after connection, I gasp - Telehealth is a virtual hospital complete with wait-room time. 

Which I well know can be an hour.  My mind moves back one step - what happens to the data usage thing/battery if I am on hold even 30 minutes?

Finally, sweating, I break through, too late to ‘test’ the link pre-appointment.  As warning one instructs.

Thus, it is I who is late to our consult, despite never leaving the house. 

Without instruction, I have no idea what angle these devices should be tilted for best view, so I move it around, unsure if she is seeing my stressed face or stained shirt  - no doubt creating a whirl-windy blur for both of us.  

Constrained by panic and my poor use of technology, I find that the consult is more focused than I, ensuring that I miss half of it.  Cursing silently, I now see the worth of finding some way of audio-recording these things, or taking notes. 

Struggling to keep up, I jump when in tiny text my phone interrupts.  The learned medical person looks startled when my finger suddenly stabs the screen near her face to activate Low Power mode.  My 55% battery is now 9, in only 20 minutes. 

She looks annoyed when I explain that if I hang up, I am not really hanging up. 

I do feel apologetic.  And exhausted, as though I have run to the hospital and back.

A feeling made worse when turning, I note the ‘background’ to my consult – a floor covered in screwed up paper and a bra slung on a doorknob. 

Hospital Telehealth Appointment 2

Same hospital, slightly different instructions.  Unlike the last one, this email forces me to reply to it to confirm the appointment, thus motivating me to read the entire email at the time of receipt.  So, having scrutinised the instructions and tested the link (multiple times) well prior to appointment day, I figure this appointment should be relatively smooth. 

Having worked out the google chrome thing I choose this option, avoiding the phone battery issue.   Or so I think.

It all starts well.  Obediently I ‘dial in’ 15 minutes before appointment time (and then tidy up the room - with the odd dash back to the screen in case a face has appeared). 

The doctor (on time!), looks surprised by my almost teary greeting – which I explain is relief at the fact the technology is working.  And it is – image (blurry but recognisable), sound, connection. 

Until halfway through the consult, when an alarming message suddenly appears on my screen alerting me to a connection failure. 

Immediately, the doctor’s face freezes on the screen as the consult goes deadly quiet (apart from my frantic yelling).  Forced to hit that reconnect button (unsuccessfully), and then the end call button multiple times, I speedily abandon the laptop, grab my phone, find the email, find the link, and dial back in – jumping into the consult so panic-stricken that I forget my last two questions. 

For the next 10 minutes I clench that phone in a rigid hand, frightened to move lest I lose the obviously fragile connection. 

Please -

GP Telehealth.

Or a germy waiting room.

That’s all I can handle.