Last weekend, I found myself crammed into a dimly lit corner at Winnipeg’s Health Sciences Centre, watching as exhausted nurses darted between overflowing hallway beds. I was there with Elena Woodsworth, a 72-year-old grandmother who had been waiting 37 hours for a room after experiencing severe chest pain. Her daughter Sarah hadn’t left her side, sleeping upright in a plastic chair for two nights.
“We voted for change,” Sarah whispered, careful not to wake her mother who had finally drifted off. “We were promised better healthcare. But it feels like we’re beyond the point where promises can fix anything.”
Her frustration echoes across Manitoba, where healthcare was the defining issue of the 2023 provincial election. The NDP swept to power with bold promises to repair a system many voters described as “broken.” Six months into their mandate, the reality is sobering: Manitoba’s healthcare crisis may have become too deeply entrenched for quick fixes.
The statistics tell part of the story. Wait times at Winnipeg emergency departments have increased by 22% since 2019, according to data from Shared Health Manitoba. The Canadian Institute for Health Information reports that Manitoba now has the second-longest wait times for surgeries in Canada, with some patients waiting up to 18 months for procedures considered “elective” but life-changing, like hip replacements.
“What we’re seeing isn’t just a staffing shortage or pandemic aftermath—it’s systemic collapse after years of disinvestment,” explains Dr. Kristjan Thompson, an emergency physician who has worked in Winnipeg hospitals for over a decade. “When I started my career, having patients in hallways was an exception during flu season. Now it’s our standard operating procedure year-round.”
The roots of Manitoba’s healthcare crisis reach back well before COVID-19. Progressive Conservative cuts under Brian Pallister’s government between 2016 and 2021 eliminated over 500 nursing positions across the province while simultaneously closing several emergency departments in Winnipeg. The pandemic merely accelerated what many healthcare workers describe as a predictable decline.
In Fisher Branch, a rural community about two hours north of Winnipeg, I met Darlene Sinclair, an Indigenous elder who coordinates community health outreach. She’s watched as rural healthcare access has steadily deteriorated.
“Our people have to drive two hours for basic care when our local clinic is closed, which is more often than not these days,” Sinclair told me while showing me their community health station—a single room with basic first aid supplies. “Some elders just don’t go. They suffer at home because the journey is too difficult.”
The healthcare worker exodus compounds these problems. Manitoba’s nursing vacancy rate hovers around 18% according to the Manitoba Nurses Union, with some departments running at critical shortage levels above 25%. More concerning is that experienced professionals are leaving fastest.
“We’re not just losing bodies, we’re losing decades of institutional knowledge,” says Jennifer Swain, a nurse with 22 years of experience who recently left Manitoba’s healthcare system to work in British Columbia. “The newer nurses don’t have the mentors they need. It creates this downward spiral where everyone feels overwhelmed, more leave, and then the problem gets worse.”
Health Minister Uzoma Asagwara inherited these challenges when the NDP formed government last October. In April, they announced an initial $200 million healthcare stabilization package focused on retaining staff and reducing wait times. But critics argue this represents a fraction of what’s needed.
“You can’t repair a house that’s missing its foundation with just new paint,” explains Dr. Jillian Horton, an internal medicine physician and healthcare reform advocate. “Manitoba needs massive structural investment—in facilities, in staff, in technology, and in prevention.”
When I spoke with Dr. Horton in her office at the University of Manitoba, she pointed to fundamental problems that extend beyond funding. “Our system is designed around acute care, not prevention. We wait until people are desperately ill before intervening, which is both more expensive and less effective.”
This reactive approach is particularly evident in how the system serves Indigenous communities. Manitoba has the highest proportion of Indigenous people among Canadian provinces at 18%, yet persistent gaps in culturally appropriate care remain.
Leona Star, a researcher with the First Nations Health and Social Secretariat of Manitoba, has documented these disparities for years. “First Nations patients often receive lower quality care due to racism and cultural barriers,” she explains. “When they avoid seeking healthcare because of past negative experiences, preventable conditions become emergencies.”
At a recent community forum in Winnipeg’s North End, I watched as dozens of residents shared healthcare horror stories—12-hour emergency waits, cancelled surgeries, and being unable to find family doctors. The room crackled with frustration, but also determination.
“We’ve reached this bizarre point where everyone agrees the system is failing, but we still can’t seem to fix it,” said community organizer Miguel Rodriguez. “The question isn’t whether we need change anymore—it’s whether our politicians have the courage to make truly transformative changes rather than incremental ones.”
The province’s new healthcare plan includes expanding virtual care options and recruiting healthcare workers from overseas. These are sensible steps, but healthcare experts suggest Manitoba needs more creative solutions.
Dr. Damon Ramsey, founder of digital health platform InputHealth, believes technology could help address some immediate concerns. “Virtual care isn’t just about convenience—it can dramatically reduce unnecessary emergency visits by connecting patients with appropriate care earlier,” he says. “But Manitoba has been slow to adopt these innovations compared to other provinces.”
Innovation might help, but the fundamental challenge remains rebuilding a workforce pushed to its breaking point. Back at Health Sciences Centre, I watched as Dr. Thompson finished a 12-hour shift that had stretched to 14 hours.
“We used to talk about burnout as something that happened to individuals,” he reflected. “Now we’re seeing burnout as a system-wide phenomenon. When everyone is depleted at once, recovery becomes exponentially harder.”
As I left the hospital, Elena Woodsworth was still waiting for a room. Her daughter Sarah had stepped out to buy coffee—her fourth of the day. The packed hallway of patients represented both the immediate crisis and the long road ahead.
Manitoba voted for healthcare reform, but the question remains whether any government can deliver on that promise quickly enough to prevent further deterioration. The system’s problems took years to develop and will likely take years to solve. For patients like Elena and families like Sarah’s, that reality offers little comfort during their 40th hour in a hospital hallway.
