The Appointment That Never Comes
Maybe it was the way I worded the message, polite but firm, breezy but clearly hopeful, the kind of tone I have perfected when I’m trying to look relaxed while absolutely needing something. Maybe it was the post-therapy clarity. Maybe it was simple delusion.
Or maybe it was just that I genuinely needed the appointment.
Either way, when the patient portal pinged with “We received your request”, I let myself feel hopeful. Five minutes later, that hope dissolved into the void where unanswered messages go to evaporate. No follow-up. No reassurance. Not even the vague, performative “Your request has been routed.” Just… nothing.
A very particular kind of silence that starts out mildly annoying and slowly becomes its own character in your day.
Three days in, I was refreshing the portal like it was a slot machine I was emotionally invested in. And you’d think, after two decades in healthcare, I’d be over this. I know how this works. I understand the backlogs, the triage queues, how the way one message can get lost under twelve new admissions and fourteen medication questions. But knowing doesn’t actually protect you from feeling.
By day four, my inner narrator had fully taken over.
Maybe someone forwarded my message to someone who forwarded it to someone who minimized the window and never returned. Maybe it was sitting in a triage bucket titled “urgent-but-not-critical.” Maybe the scheduler took lunch and then twelve crises happened. Or maybe my request was quietly pushed to “tomorrow,” the way adults push their dental cleanings.
Then my nurse-brain kicked in.
Which is never good.
Because nurses don’t wait, not well, anyway. We troubleshoot. We anticipate. We diagnose the problem and then diagnose ourselves. We try to hack time and space and portals and logic.
I started doing all the insider workaround tricks nurses do:
Refreshing at unreasonable intervals.
Checking every tab as though one might magically reveal a secret appointment slot.
Convincing myself a nurse triage line could “accidentally” fast-track me.
Staring at past messages to see if I could decode a pattern.
And then, my personal favorite—the self-regulation-through-self-diagnosis spiral.
Maybe I didn’t need it.
Maybe the symptoms were just hormones.
Or dehydration.
Or stress.
Or parenting.
Or spiritual misalignment.
Or “just one of those days.”
Nurses are elite self-diagnosers. Our brains hold encyclopedias of symptoms, which means we’re equally likely to shrug something off or assume it’s a medical plot twist requiring a team of specialists.
There is no middle ground. We don’t live there.
And then came the phone call.
I finally caved and called to check on the delay, prepared with my calmest voice. The representative was kind, which almost made this worse, because her tone softened right before she gave me the news.
The neurology panel was full.
Now, for anyone who doesn’t speak healthcare fluently, let me translate:
There were no neurologists available. At all.
Not in-network, not adjacent-network, not “we can squeeze you in for a quick visit.” Nothing.
She explained, gently, that they were calling outside providers; essentially ringing up neurologists like, “Hey… any chance you’re accepting… one more human?” And if none said yes, the wait would be over nine months.
Nine.
For something I was told could be serious.
The nurse part of me understood how this happens—provider shortages, capacity issues, demand outpacing supply. But the human part of me sat there thinking, I am not emotionally stable enough for a nine-month cliffhanger.
And suddenly, all my portal refreshing and self-diagnosing and mental acrobatics made sense.
At dinner a few nights later, I told the story to my girlfriends. Before I reached the nine-month punchline, someone said, “Oh my god, SAME.” Another admitted she refreshes her portal like it owes her money. Someone else said she assumes messages just disappear into a digital black hole and now waits for signs from the universe.
It hit me then:
This wasn’t just my private unraveling.
It was… universal.
Anyone who has ever tried to navigate care knows how to wait. But we don’t wait quietly. We wait with a full internal monologue running at all times:
Should I follow up?
Am I being annoying?
Is this normal?
Is this serious, or am I just tired?
Am I supposed to know what to do next?
Does asking twice make me difficult?
Is this my fault somehow?
Waiting is not stillness.
Waiting is motion.
Internal, exhausting motion.
A few days later, when my nervous system finally unclenched, (and other body parts, thanks to the gym and a glass of wine), I caught myself laughing. Not because any of this was funny, but because I realized something: even with all my insider knowledge, even with twenty years of seeing how care works, I am still just a person waiting for someone to call me back.
I don’t get a shortcut.
I don’t get a VIP lane.
I don’t get emotional immunity.
Being inside healthcare doesn’t make waiting easier.
Sometimes it makes it louder.
Eventually, the appointment did show up, anticlimactically, in the middle of Trader Joe’s while I was comparing frozen dumpling options like a responsibly overwhelmed adult. No explanation. No phone call. Just a random, miraculous little notification that a time slot had opened.
I stared at it for a moment, partly relieved, partly amused at the emotional gymnastics that tiny update had put me through. As ridiculous as it sounds, that moment told me more about myself than about the system. It reminded me how much energy I spend trying to interpret things that offer no explanation, how quickly I shift into problem-solving even when problem-solving isn’t an option, and how deeply uncomfortable the in-between can be.
Not dramatic.
Just human.
Until next time, stay curious — and be gentle with yourself.
With gratitude,
Steph
