Digital health saved us the hospital run, but it also served up a side of frustration and a final bill that landed like a sting.
Like most things that feel urgent in hindsight, it began at 4am on a Saturday – that strange hour when the world is silent and when problems always seem louder than they are.
The warm body of my six-year-old climbed into my bed. Not unusual if we’re honest.
I rolled over and realised she wasn’t just warm, she was hot. And her little heart was pounding so hard I could feel it straight away as I gathered her into a hug.
Mum brain activated, I started thinking about what it could be. She’d vomited at school the day before, and we’d had to pick her up early. But it had been a 38-degree day, and we’d assumed it was just heat-related. She’d had an earache, but that was days ago.
Virus? Probably. But what if it’s not? I look at her tummy looking for a rash. All clear.
I grab her a water bottle, some paracetamol and my phone. I’ll do the Healthdirect symptom checker online.
I went through the questionnaire but stumbled a few times. Not sure of the temperature. Our thermometer ran out of batteries, and despite visiting two chemists, a watch shop and Coles last week, I never found replacements. Maybe she’s about 39 degrees?
“Is it the worst headache you’ve ever had?” I ask her.
Prone to exaggeration, she solemnly nods.
“Go straight to emergency,” the Healthdirect advice page advises in bright red.
Bugger, I think. Our closest emergency is Northern Beaches Hospital. As a journalist for Health Services Daily, I’ve written a lot about this hospital in the past year. Sadly, it’s not an unusual conversation among local families whether you go there or (if you can) head straight to Royal North Shore.
I look at her again. She looks surprisingly perky for a kid who is awake at 4:30am. Her fever has definitely reduced, and on a second look through the medicine box, I find an old, discarded thermometer – 37.8 degrees.
Maybe I got some inputs wrong on the symptom checker? I’ll call the Healthdirect line. They’re usually good at interpreting kid’s symptoms.
“Why are you calling someone in the middle of the night?” my daughter asks me incredulously.
Within five minutes, I’m talking to a lovely nurse. We go through the same questions. This time I tell her the fever seemed to be going down, she’s drinking water, she’s alert.
“She’s probably got a stomach virus. Make sure you keep the fluids up and see a doctor or do a telehealth consultation within 24 hours.”
Okay, that’s easier to handle. We both settle into her bed and end up sleeping for a few more hours.
When we wake, her fever has settled, and her heart rate is normal. She still has a headache and tummy ache, probably expected after vomiting and potential dehydration. But not one to disobey instructions, I phone my local GP, who I know is open on Saturday mornings.
Although there are no appointments available online on HotDoc, I can usually talk to a receptionist who will squeeze a young child in when there’s an urgent issue.
“Hello, this is your AI receptionist,” I am greeted with over the phone. What? I’ve never heard that before.
“When would you like to make an appointment?”
“Today.”
“There are no appointments today, the first available appointment is Monday with Dr ****. “
Clearly, there’s no way of sweet-talking an AI receptionist.
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(Later this week, I spoke to my GP’s practice manager. He said the AI receptionist is very new and something they’re still experimenting with to help with the high level of calls that come through. More on that another day.)
So, I head back to HotDoc. I can book a Telehealth on Demand appointment in 15 minutes. This service was controversially relaunched in August, and allows patients to book an appointment from within the HotDoc network only after they’ve exhausted all other options for an appointment with their regular practice. I guess that’s where I’m at.
I choose the shortest consultation, up to eight minutes, and click through to book the appointment. Easy.
It’s only on the final screen that they mention it won’t be covered under Medicare. Although I expected that, the price stings — $82.95, just over $10 a minute.
I pause for a second.
We’ve got a busy day with our other children. A dance concert, party and sports games are scheduled. I guess this is the price of convenience, of not having to sit in a busy urgent care clinic or medical centre.
I book the appointment.
They tell me the consultation will be fulfilled by Hola Health and 15 minutes later, I’m talking to a doctor who rapidly goes through my daughter’s symptoms and reiterates the diagnosis.
Stomach bug, keep up the water.
“Should I be worried about the headache?” I ask.
No, she’s probably dehydrated. Just monitor her.
All as I suspected, but there’s reassurance in being told by someone who has Dr in their title.
Later, I’m relaying the encounter with my mother, who told me she also used Hola Health after a recent fall while visiting my sister’s farm. Living in a remote location, these types of telehealth services are vital when the alternative is driving over two hours for medical help.
“But I’m sure I only paid $39,” she recalls.
A quick check on the Hola Health website shows me that’s true. And if I’d gone directly through Hola Health and waited until 12pm on a Saturday or had to call on a Sunday, this would be bulk billed.
I went from feeling quite smug about using the digital health tools that I’ve written so much about to feeling a bit ripped off. Over a 100% markup just for booking through HotDoc feels like a lot.
By the afternoon, my daughter had perked up, and the next day she was strutting on stage in her dance concert as though nothing had happened.
What lingered was the bill — $82.95 for eight minutes and the sense that convenience sometimes comes at a cost that isn’t entirely transparent.
The digital world has infinitely improved our access to healthcare, particularly on weekends. But this experience reminds me that not all digital health is created equal and there’s still a long way to go.
The nurse at Healthdirect gave me clarity. The doctor on telehealth gave me reassurance. The AI receptionist gave me irritation. The middleman gave me a mark-up.
At 4am, everything feels urgent; at 4pm, you start checking the fine print.