ON a recent visit to the Rawalpindi Institute of Cardiology (RIC), I noticed a sad state of affairs. First, there was no parking space near the Emergency Department (ED), and people had to seek the mercy of security guards to let them take their patients to the medical staff before parking their vehicles wherever the designated space was.

Besides, patients have to first take the stairs because the ED is on the first floor. Their attendants help them into hospital wheelchairs. As soon as patients gets into a wheelchair, a staff member leaps towards them. He does not help them. Instead, he asks for a CNIC; this acts as an insurance that the wheelchair would not be stolen.

If it were a visit to some Outpatient Department (OPD), all of this would have been fine, for, after all, such visits are not even remotely as critical as emergency visits are. In cases pertaining to cardiac care, especially myocardial infarctions, each second is important.

The interaction between the wheelchair staff and the attendant in the process of getting one’s CNIC takes around 10-15 seconds. These are about 10-15 seconds too many. This time interval could be the window between life and death.

Besides, handing the most important personal document to a stranger (the staff member collecting CNICs was not wearing a hospital uniform) comes with security risks. Under what law is the hospital collecting CNICs? Who would be res-ponsible if the CNICs are lost? Who would bear the brunt if a lost CNIC is used in an illegal activity?

If this is the state of affairs at a specia-lised hospital in the heart of the twin cities — one of them being the federal capital — it is not too hard to imagine the abysmally poor state of affairs at basic health units (BHUs) and rural health centres (RHCs).

Name withheld on request
Rawalpindi

Published in Dawn, September 2nd, 2025