First Impressions While You Wait
Two days. Two healthcare facilities. Two vastly different experiences.
On day one, I accompanied my wife to a new(ish) provider in a clinic I’d never been to before. She was undergoing a minor procedure, but for this nervous-Nellie husband, “minor” might as well be “open heart surgery in the back of a runaway truck.”
Now, if you’ll allow me to skip to the end right here at the beginning: you should know that the medical team itself was first-class: they took great care of her, answered all of our questions, and did all the things you would hope someone would do if they’re performing open heart surgery in the bed of a speeding F-150. As far as that team goes, I have zero complaints and nothing but praise.
The problem was, I didn’t meet the medical team first. I met the front desk team, who was almost 15 minutes late opening the front doors of the clinic after we’d been told to arrive no later than 8 a.m.
I met a harried receptionist, who led us through a dark lobby with a muttered apology and into a tiny office, where she had to shoo out a co-worker and make us stand awkwardly and uncomfortably while she had a seat and checked us in.
And worst of all, I met the waiting area: a too-small set of shabby, dirty chairs that looked like they haven’t seen a hint of upholstery cleaner since Carter was president, strategically positioned so I could hear every twist of the toilet paper roll (and a few other things) in the bathroom next to me, every conversation of the late-arriving nurses recapping their weekend and talking about that day’s docket, and the occasional snippet of conversation between providers and the actual patients, risking tipping me off to info that would violate HIPAA laws in 53 states.
To summarize that experience: all of the waiting room and pre-procedure stimuli made this Nellie a little more nervous. If it’s this bad out here, what’s happening back there?
Thirty hours later on day two, I toured a pregnancy support center that is a local ministry partner of our church. I was met at the front door by a staff member who knew I was coming and was prepared with introductions and conversation while I waited for my host to arrive.
I walked into a cozy – dare I say inviting? – space that felt far more like a living room than a lobby. The chairs were pristine, clean, and comfortable, the background white noise absorbed any next-room-over conversations, the smells and the music and even the pictures on the walls brought an immediate sense of calm.
The exam and consultation rooms were the same. Rather than graphic medical posters that test your ability to remain upright, I was met with that same warm and welcoming feeling with each room I entered.
The resource room – an area filled with clothing and other supplies – felt less like a cast-off closet and more like a high-end boutique, carefully curated with a too-young mom in mind, every item laid out in a way that was purposeful and intuitive.
The Life Skills area – where they partner with and educate parents who choose to keep their baby – was stocked with children’s books and toys and felt a little more like like Grandma’s house than it did a medical / educational facility. In fact, had it been a normal afternoon and not a time set aside for a ministry tour, an actual client would’ve been met with something to drink and a home-baked treat.
I recognize that I was a guest of that support center and not a client, but as I put myself in the shoes of a young woman with an unplanned pregnancy, everything I encountered whispered “We’ve planned for you. We care about you. You’re in good hands here.”
To summarize that experience: all of the waiting room surrounding stimuli felt like it would make a surprise situation a bit more bearable: I certainly didn’t plan to be here, but thank God they’ve gone through such lengths to plan for me.
Facility one on day one got the job done. Merriem’s procedure was textbook and everything went as planned. But I’m left with the nagging feeling that a well-funded facility in a city known for state-of-the-art medicine could do so much better: buy some new chairs. Show up ten minutes before your patients. Spend twenty bucks on a white noise machine.
If any place on the planet deserves a pass, it’s facility two on day two. Every service they perform is free of charge. They run on donations and volunteer labor. They do this job because they want to, not because they have to. Yet they refuse to cheap out on lobby chairs. They train their team specifically in the art of making others comfortable. They provide homemade baked goods, for crying out loud.
Your surgical suite may be the primary revenue driver of your business. Your ultrasound room may be the linchpin of your nonprofit ministry. But your waiting room matters more than you might think. Your patient, client, or guest doesn’t see those centerpieces of your organization first. They experience your front desk team first. They see your lobby chairs first. They hear the toilet paper roll first.
First impressions matter. You might as well make them great.
