Robert Mankoff's December 10, 2007 New Yorker Cartoon is available for purchase
Monday, December 24, 2007
Why I am not in Therapy: Do I *Need* Another Fib?
Even Freud was more optimistic: at least he promised to turn neurosis into "ordinary unhappiness," whatever that means!
Robert Mankoff's December 10, 2007 New Yorker Cartoon is available for purchase
Robert Mankoff's December 10, 2007 New Yorker Cartoon is available for purchase
Saturday, December 22, 2007
The Making of an American: First Step
So I’ve begun my immigration process. Yesterday, I went for a special medical exam, which all aspiring immigrants have to take. Out of hundreds of special doctors, certified by the government to attest to the good health of newcomers, my lawyer recommended a doctor in Chinatown. To assure me that there was no impropriety in his recommendation, the lawyer said he had never seen or talked to the man, nor got as much as a Christmas card from him. The last part of the argument didn’t seem convincing to me: the lawyer is a Jew and the doctor – Chinese, so even if they *were* tight, why *would* they exchange cards on Christmas?!
I went to this doctor anyway: he was taking walk-ins and was, supposedly, cheap. I cursed my way through half of Canal Street – you try to stay calm amidst holiday shoppers and tourists mesmerized by counterfeit Prada purses and Chanel perfumes! – looking for the address. Even though the entrance I needed turned out to be well lit and marked by a bright-blue awning, I could not find it at first distracted by overpowering sights, sounds, and smells of the fish shops on both sides of the door and along the entire block.
The doctor’s office was the least medical-like establishment I’ve ever been to (maybe with the exception of a “home office” of a respiratory-disease doctor my parents took me to almost thirty years ago, where I had to inhale some eucalyptus concoction for my bad sinuses in a corner of his living room). First, I talked to the receptionist, who did the paperwork, informed me about the payment (cash only, but it was half of what I had expected), and made sure I am not pregnant (for vaccinations and X-ray). When it came to the last issue, the woman, despite her pretty good English, decided to also use sign language: she started making circles in front of her stomach and then crossing it. I got confused at first: to me it looked like she was asking whether I was hungry, or whether I had eaten recently, or had digestion problems. Nothing in the sign evoked babies. But it must be a universal sign for pregnancy for the Chinese communicating with foreigners: when I went down to radiology, the man there did the same circle, only now I knew what it meant and almost preempted his question with a resolute “no.”
The immigration form for the medical exam makes it sound a serious affair. The applicants are warned that they will have to get undressed to allow a doctor a thorough check-up. They are urged to share any medical history and health concerns they might have during the exam. I was prepared to spend a good half-hour with the doctor discussing my higher-than-desirable cholesterol, my psychosomatic bladder problems, my bad posture, and persistent sinus problems (those visits to the “home office” of the Russian doctor evidently were a waste of time and money – also, cash only!). The man wouldn’t have it: all he did was draw some blood and give me a TD shot; I didn’t even have to take off my sweater all the way, just bared my forearm for the former and shoulder for the latter. More surprisingly, though, the doctor didn’t wear latex gloves, or even a lab coat. I wasn’t even sure his syringes were sterile. He barely spoke to me, and the whole thing didn’t last more than a few minutes. When I brought back my chest X-ray taken in a lab two floors down, his diagnosis – my lungs are healthy (which is surprising after so many years of smoking) – came way too quickly, but I am hoping it is because of his profound expertise rather than professional sloppiness or dislike of Russian Jews. I am due back next week to pick up results of my blood work; at least this takes some time to process.
I am not sure whether this encounter is a reflection on the immigration system of this country; or on the state of its healthcare; or on the standards and work ethic of Chinese doctors, although here I wonder how different my experience would have been with a Russian doctor in Brighton Beach and besides the man was chosen and presumably trained by the United States government. Or am I a cultural imperialist with no understanding and respect for another culture? In any case, something seemed a bit off, shady, and fishy, and not only because of the fish market outside of the doctor’s office. On the other hand, if the entire process of immigration is this quick and unintrusive, I’m all for it.
I went to this doctor anyway: he was taking walk-ins and was, supposedly, cheap. I cursed my way through half of Canal Street – you try to stay calm amidst holiday shoppers and tourists mesmerized by counterfeit Prada purses and Chanel perfumes! – looking for the address. Even though the entrance I needed turned out to be well lit and marked by a bright-blue awning, I could not find it at first distracted by overpowering sights, sounds, and smells of the fish shops on both sides of the door and along the entire block.
The doctor’s office was the least medical-like establishment I’ve ever been to (maybe with the exception of a “home office” of a respiratory-disease doctor my parents took me to almost thirty years ago, where I had to inhale some eucalyptus concoction for my bad sinuses in a corner of his living room). First, I talked to the receptionist, who did the paperwork, informed me about the payment (cash only, but it was half of what I had expected), and made sure I am not pregnant (for vaccinations and X-ray). When it came to the last issue, the woman, despite her pretty good English, decided to also use sign language: she started making circles in front of her stomach and then crossing it. I got confused at first: to me it looked like she was asking whether I was hungry, or whether I had eaten recently, or had digestion problems. Nothing in the sign evoked babies. But it must be a universal sign for pregnancy for the Chinese communicating with foreigners: when I went down to radiology, the man there did the same circle, only now I knew what it meant and almost preempted his question with a resolute “no.”
The immigration form for the medical exam makes it sound a serious affair. The applicants are warned that they will have to get undressed to allow a doctor a thorough check-up. They are urged to share any medical history and health concerns they might have during the exam. I was prepared to spend a good half-hour with the doctor discussing my higher-than-desirable cholesterol, my psychosomatic bladder problems, my bad posture, and persistent sinus problems (those visits to the “home office” of the Russian doctor evidently were a waste of time and money – also, cash only!). The man wouldn’t have it: all he did was draw some blood and give me a TD shot; I didn’t even have to take off my sweater all the way, just bared my forearm for the former and shoulder for the latter. More surprisingly, though, the doctor didn’t wear latex gloves, or even a lab coat. I wasn’t even sure his syringes were sterile. He barely spoke to me, and the whole thing didn’t last more than a few minutes. When I brought back my chest X-ray taken in a lab two floors down, his diagnosis – my lungs are healthy (which is surprising after so many years of smoking) – came way too quickly, but I am hoping it is because of his profound expertise rather than professional sloppiness or dislike of Russian Jews. I am due back next week to pick up results of my blood work; at least this takes some time to process.
I am not sure whether this encounter is a reflection on the immigration system of this country; or on the state of its healthcare; or on the standards and work ethic of Chinese doctors, although here I wonder how different my experience would have been with a Russian doctor in Brighton Beach and besides the man was chosen and presumably trained by the United States government. Or am I a cultural imperialist with no understanding and respect for another culture? In any case, something seemed a bit off, shady, and fishy, and not only because of the fish market outside of the doctor’s office. On the other hand, if the entire process of immigration is this quick and unintrusive, I’m all for it.
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