“We drove in before sunrise, there was fog over the highway, kids half asleep in the back, and all for bloods that took three minutes.”
Before sunrise, one family was already on the highway. There was fog on the road and sleepy children in the back seat. The reason for the journey was a blood test that took three minutes.
That anonymous account from Dubbo and the Central West captures something appointment records rarely show. The medical task may be brief, but reaching it can take hours. It can mean fuel, food, time away from work, childcare and a long drive while unwell. Another contributor put the financial strain into six words: “Saved for two weeks just to drive in.”
These stories were shared through Doctor, Tell Me a Story!, my completed medical-humanities project. People contributed short, anonymous accounts of healthcare in our region. Some wrote about distance. Others wrote about waiting, communication, telehealth or a small act of kindness that changed how care felt.
No single story can represent rural Australia. Together, however, the accounts show how barriers can pile up. A person living on a low income may also be older, managing chronic illness, caring for children or without reliable transport. A missed appointment can look like disengagement from the clinic. From the kitchen table, it may look like an empty fuel tank, a roster that cannot be changed, or no one available to make the drive.
One contributor wrote, “No car today; telehealth made care possible.” For that person, technology did more than save time. It turned an impossible appointment into an accessible one. Another story described taking a phone to the window where reception lived. Telehealth can narrow distance, but only when people have a device, privacy, a reliable connection and a service that suits the consultation.
Waiting created a different kind of distance. The stories spoke of closed books, scans delayed and appointments booked out for weeks. During that time, symptoms and worry continued. The wait did not happen in an empty space; it happened inside family life, work and the cost of travelling again.
Yet, some of the clearest memories were about care itself. A receptionist kept the last appointment because she knew the patient had a long drive. A doctor explained a diagnosis on paper. A nurse tucked a blanket around Nan’s shoulders “the way we do at home”, and the ward suddenly felt less like a machine.
As a medical student in Dubbo, collecting these stories changed what I notice. Good rural health care is not only what happens in the consulting room. It includes the journey, the wait, whether the explanation makes sense, and whether someone feels seen.
Listening offers practical starting points: ask what travel will cost, recognise transport and connectivity barriers, use telehealth when appropriate, explain the next step clearly, and make room for the person behind the appointment. These actions do not solve workforce shortages or geography, but they can stop the system adding avoidable hardship.
The blood test took three minutes. The healthcare experience began hours earlier. If we want better outcomes for rural priority populations, the journey to care must count as part of care.
Doctor, Tell Me a Story! was supported by the Harold and Gwenneth Harris Endowment for Medical Humanities Scholarship, Faculty of Medicine and Health, University of Sydney.
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