Welcome to the hospital of ghosts — where you only exist on Microsoft Teams

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Picture this:

A tall building, floors of offices. Everyone sitting in their designated corners, working away on their computers.

The corridors are eerily quiet, aside from the occasional cough and sneeze echoing through the hallways.

Even though everyone is essentially side by side in this organisation, engaging in face-to-face activity is a rarity, and seen as an annoyance, a barrier to productivity.

Everything — and I stress, everything — must be done through Microsoft Teams.

All ‘chats’ (formal or informal) and all meetings, but no cameras are ever turned on.

“Just Teams me.”

Do you think I am describing some sort of scene from the future? A corporate office block, perhaps? Maybe a customer service office?

Believe it or not, this is a story about a medical institution I had the experience of working at not long ago.

Before I delve into my bizarro experiences, I must add that I do appreciate Microsoft Teams in certain contexts, such as working remotely, or connecting regional and rural colleagues to those in the city. Even within a close-knit team, the program can assist with communication and task delegation.  

What I have trouble grasping, however, is how a medical facility can outsource the very fundamentals of what it means to be a team — with Teams.

Other than learning medicine and delivering good patient care, part of the fun of working as a doctor (if you have a good workplace) is interacting with your broader multidisciplinary team, particularly when delivering cancer care — which can, even on the best of days, weigh heavily on your soul.

Building meaningful relationships with your colleagues, enjoying a nice conversation (be it clinical or non-clinical), or even just the feeling of being seen and known is incredibly important for your wellbeing — and, as I quickly discovered, your sanity.

I am no stranger to Teams department meetings or multidisciplinary meetings from my time at previous workplaces. The convenience factor has certainly made it the new norm post-COVID.

However, not turning on your camera had always been considered bad IT etiquette — so much so that if yours was off, you would be instructed to turn it on at the respect of the speaker.

If this could not be helped for whatever reason, everyone’s hospital security or professional photo was set as their Teams icon, at least allowing you to be recognised.

I remember my first week at this new medical institution, tuning in to my first virtual meeting, maybe 30 or so people in attendance. I was the only one with the camera turned on. I imagined myself in a small auditorium, standing at the podium and looking out to my audience — yet all I could see were the backs of their chairs.

“Welcome to the department,” an anonymous voice said. Which chair was talking?

It took me nearly five months to realise that other than my immediate supervisors and colleagues, I did not know what anyone in my broader team looked like. Was that Patrick or Lucy? Jennifer or Trevor?

More like John and Jane Doe.

Then came my very first call to switchboard, after my patient had a suspected seizure on the way out of my clinic room.

Luckily, I was walking right behind the patient at the time and caught them on the way down. They recovered shortly and uneventfully — but I was absolutely flabbergasted by the switchboard lady, who refused to put me through to the neurological specialist for a quick consult.

“But I’d much prefer to speak to them on the phone, please,” I persisted.

“Have you Teamsed them?”

“No, I want to speak to them, this is a rather urgent matter.”

“I cannot put you through to them; that is not institution policy. Just Teams them,” she said abruptly as she dropped the line.

Have a question about a patient for your consultant during their clinic? Don’t knock on their door, just Teams them.

Need to talk to someone about a non-clinical matter? You guessed it, Teams them.

See a colleague walking past your room, coffee in hand, who has been screening your Teams messages all day? Give them a big ol’ thumbs down.

Amid the anonymity of screens, I found myself craving more human contact beyond that of my day-to-day patients.

Sure, I would ‘love react’ a kind message or helpful piece of clinical advice, tack on a ‘laugh react’ to any feeble attempt at a joke — but as I was fortunate enough to have been a part of a close workplace prior to this, I missed the feeling of togetherness that simply could not be satisfied by empty digital gestures.

Then again, perhaps I need to get with the times, and this was a taste of what is to come.

If it is, I’ll give it a big ‘sad react’.

Any further questions about this article? Just Teams me.

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