[Un]reasonably outraged by specialist fees and waitlists for kids

Does getting help for your child feel like a full-time job?

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

A few weeks ago, I contacted five clinics trying to book a paediatrician appointment for one of my children. Our usual clinic could see us in six months, but at a cost of $900 (price hike since the first visit). The rest had waitlists of at least nine months. The ones that were slightly more affordable? A year.

‘We’ll add you to the waitlist’ is a phrase I have heard more than once in the last fortnight.

I stared at the list and felt that familiar mix of helplessness and irritation.

Our child isn’t a complicated case, but they do need support, especially heading into the pointy end of schooling. Our usual specialist is an hour away, the waitlist is longer than the line at Spotlight during a Book Week, and the receptionists could scare a Year 9 boy into handing over his phone. For what we pay, it feels rushed and impersonal. Like we’re the easy ones, the family who can be palmed off. The paediatrician is friendly and knowledgeable but the whole clinic feels like a money-making factory.

When I asked for a letter for the school outlining our child’s diagnosis and suggested strategies for support, it was one sentence. Child’s name. Their diagnosis. That was $500 for the privilege. When I queried the expense, I was shut down very quickly. Demand outstrips supply so they can pick and choose their patients too.

Our case is thankfully not severe enough to qualify for NDIS, and not in urgent territory, yet even basic support is elusive or wildly expensive. It would be great to have a care team that was accessible and didn’t cost the equivalent of a small car.

I’ve spoken to other parents and read post after post from families in similar boats, often much worse and more desperate, trying to access paediatricians, speechies, OTs, psychs, and it’s always the same story. Calls that lead nowhere. A flicker of hope (a cancellation!) followed by the crushing reality that six sessions will cost your entire tax return.

This isn’t about one bad experience. It’s about a broken system. One that’s failing kids and burning out their parents in the process.

Early intervention?

We’re told again and again that early intervention is key. And it is. The earlier we act, the better the outcome. Our child’s diagnosis happened in high school and took a year from me raising the flag.

This is where so many Australian families get stuck. You see the signs, your GP listens, writes the referral, and then months roll by. No availability. No sense of when, or even if, someone will help.

Public vs private: time vs money

Public services exist but they’re drowning. Some families wait more than a year for an initial assessment. Others just never hear back. Staff are overloaded. Budgets stretched, and even if you get through the door, it usually comes with a caveat: this isn’t long-term support.

So you turn to private care. And that’s when the cost really hits.

Depending on the issues, initial consults start around $250 and can stretch to thousands for diagnostic tests. Weekly therapy? Adds up. Medicare rebates help, but they don’t go far. And the NDIS? I hear the positives, when it works, but getting in is a marathon. One that often requires private reports you’ll need to fund yourself, upfront.

So now you’re not just worried about your child, you’re up late juggling spreadsheets, trying to afford a diagnosis, the relevant services or therapy, and you’re doing it all while parenting (often other children too!), working, holding it together, and trying not to scream into the void.

It shouldn’t be this hard!

Conversations with friends turn into therapy sessions and list comparisons. Waitlists, therapist names, medication options. I’ve heard some people turning to AI for suggestions (yikes)! We vent about guilt. Guilt for missing signs. Guilt for not pushing harder. Guilt for being privileged but still stuck.

Because we are privileged.  We live in a city relatively close to services. We are white, middle class and speak English. We have flexible jobs and a supportive GP. And it’s still a battle. So what does that mean for families without those advantages?

The invisible cost

The financial cost is apparent, but what about the rest of it? The time. The energy. The mental load. The relentless admin. Booking appointments, filling out forms, printing reports, following up schools. Chasing the same referrals and doing it all with a calm face for your child while you’re quietly falling apart.

The truth is parents need support too because you can’t advocate when you’re burnt out. You can’t keep fighting if your nervous system is cooked. And you can’t be the safe space your child needs if you feel like you’re fried.

So, what now?

I don’t have a neat and tidy answer, but I do know we can’t keep pretending this is sustainable.

We need real funding for public paediatric and allied health services. We need more training pathways, more Medicare rebates, and faster, fairer access to care. We need a system that works before kids reach crisis point and before their parents (and teachers!) hit the wall.

Until that happens, we keep talking about it because sometimes, just hearing “me too” is enough to remind us we’re not imagining it.

It really is this hard. And it really shouldn’t be.

Have you had to navigate the nightmare of specialists?