I’m a little concerned about this whole ambulance ramping thing.
Things have got to be pretty bad for me to call an ambulance.
The minute I start getting a heart attack, I’ll be leaning on Wanda to find me a bed in the house where I can grab a sip of my finest whisky.
If it’s worse than that and my time has come, then so be it.
Our house is about 15 minutes away from the nearest ambulance depot, so I figure that – all things being equal – that’s about how long I’ve got before help arrives.
You’d think an ambulance with sirens blazing would be quicker than the time it normally takes to get home from the shops, but you haven’t seen Wanda drive. Trust me, it’s about 15 minutes away.
I imagine the way it works is that paramedics will get here, pull out the jumper leads, and we’ll all hope my heart has a few sparks of life left in it.
Then off we’ll go to hospital where I’ll either be on my last legs, or they’ll have found a nice neutral zone for me to rest in while we wait our turn to leap in for a triple bypass.
If the computers are down and we’re in for an eight-hour haul, I want someone to make sure we’ve packed the booze, a packet of chips and some good dip because I’ve smelt the back of an ambulance and it’s far too sterile for my liking.
I do hope things don’t work quite the same way they do at the Gabba, where queues are a first-in affair.
Please tell me that there’s a priority system.
I’m not talking about frequent flyer-type priority where the snobs who fly for work get to float on by in the fast track aisle while we sweat into our backpacks over screaming babies in foldaway prams and a bloke within arm’s length who hasn’t showered for a week.
Nor am I talking about Disneyland where you pay for the privilege, or pensioner hour at the club where dinner’s half price between 5pm-6pm.
What I mean is I hope there’s someone in charge of a check-in process that looks us over to see who’s likely to fry first.
I don’t want favours. If I’m three parts comatosed by the 30-year whisky I didn’t want left in my will, let me be. Chances are I’ll be right for a few hours while I dream of night in 1964 not long after puberty.
If I’ve only managed one sip and broken the bottle on our cement-top bar as I grab hold of the neighbouring barstool that Geoffrey’s used over the years as a horse during race day, then provide me the courtesy of a quick assessment of time to live.
Again, don’t rush me in ahead of the waiting hoards. I’m sure ambulance ramping is a great leveller and none of us will likely be in a position to argue our case as we wonder whether today’s the day we meet our maker.
What I do expect however, is that the guy in the third ambulance with the in-grown toenail doesn’t get to hit the operating table before my ticker’s had a chance to find a happy beat.
Play me some reggae at about 80 beats per minute and we should be somewhere in the zone. But fair’s fair and if I can’t get beyond a slow waltz, I want in on that theatre room full of surgeons.
Nor should they necessarily enforce the rule which historically puts women and children first.
If we’re jumping a sinking ship, it’s every man for himself, and I’m in full agreement that women and children should get first shot at a life boat.
But this is different. Here, we’re not all starting equal. This is the grim reaper versus a kid with a broken arm.
And if I’m bad enough to be in an ambulance in the first place, I guarantee things have become a little urgent.
So, Queensland Health, I suggest you get your act together. Fix your darn computer and put us all in a position to gain a fair go.
Hey Wanda, got any Panadol?
