Admitting the Truth

I spent a few days this week getting some important immigration stuff done so I can be a full-fledged legal working resident of the United Arab Emirates. Paperwork had been sent in, passport-sized photos taken, and now it was time to visit the clinic for medical testing. Chef Aaron informed me that since I was a girl, it was a very quick and pain-free process--aside from the needle jabs and all--and I should be done in less than an hour. The process for guys takes a bit longer. Not because they have more testing, since there are so many male foreign workers, they just have longer lines to stand in.

Arturo, one of our new bakers, and I hopped in a cab Monday morning and set off for the clinic with mild apprehension. Not necessarily for fear of needles...it's just that if the clinicians find something they don't like--hepatitis, for example--we would be on the next flight out of town. This happened to Arturo's brother. (Funny story--after said brother received further testing in the Philippines, it turns out he doesn't have hepatitis.) Anywhoo, we arrived and saw a massive line of Middle Eastern and Southeast Asian men waiting to get their blood drawn. I warned Arturo that this may take awhile and asked if he wanted to borrow a book. He declined, so I gave him cab fare for the ride home and said that I was not about to wait for him.

My only line was to get the bar-coded papers that I would take to each section of the clinic corresponding with the tests I needed: x-ray and blood. Papers in hand, I was ready to get poked and prodded. I was immediately directed to room #6: urine, spittle, and stool sampling. Peeing in a cup is pretty standard procedure world-wide and I was glad that I pre-hydrated. I handed the testers my papers, and he pointed to some plastic cups and said one word: "Stool."

Surely with his thick accent, he actually said "urine." Just to verify I queried, "Excuse me?"

"Stool." I began to panic. One little thing about me (something that I did not mention in my birthday post) is that I don't really like to admit that I have bodily functions. Peeing yes, that seems normal and not entirely icky, but I don't really like to admit to the others (feminine issues as well) unless we are really close, tight friends. Seriously, it took a very long time (I think my college years) until I was actually able to admit to girls that I did in fact get a period. So, in this clinic, not only did I have to admit to this complete (and male) stranger that I indeed did have bowel movements, I also had to admit that they didn't come very regularly and I couldn't just produce the requested sample at will.

Plus, Chef Aaron never warned me about this. Immediately I sent a text message hoping there would magically be some way of getting out of this situation. And there should have been. My documents only requested blood and chest X-rays. I would have gladly given urine as an additional measure, but they were not getting my pooh. Especially not that day. I argued that point with the worker, and he stated that since I was a food worker I had to have the test. I further pointed out that none of my coworkers were subjected to this form of cruelty, but he just shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the cheap plastic cups and told me to come back another day. My thoughts: "how 'bout I just get on a plane and never come back." For the record, I have given such a sample before on my mission. But when one may have parasites, it kinda comes with the territory. I don't have parasites--I think--so that precludes me, right?

I begrudgingly took a plastic cup (please note that the clinic didn't offer any shovel-type instrument with which to retrieve those samples. Another reason to reject this test.) and off I went to the other tests. I had my chest X-rayed. Interesting story as well. There were posters all over the place warning about protecting unborn babies against the dangers of X-ray radiation, so I was fully awaiting the question, "Are you pregnant?" and "Are you sure?" (oh am I ever). Instead the technician asked, "Are you married?" I assumed he wasn't going to ask me out so I felt comfortable saying that I was single, and then awaited the follow-up "are you pregnant" questions, but he never asked. I thought about suggesting that he should continue with that type of questioning because, sadly, in Western culture the lack of a spouse is not exactly an indicator of a pregnancy-free life, but thought I should just keep quiet in light of my pooh-test arguments.

Next stop: the blood test. The needles gave every appearance of being sterile, but although the lady holding them gave every appearance of being able to find a vein, she didn't do a very bang up job. No, I take that back. She did do a bang up job because I have some nice bruises on my arm from her attempts to find a vein. My veins are not too hard to find. I generally don't watch the needle go in, but in sort of a vampirish way, I like to watch the blood. However, I saw no blood. I did see a needle go back and forth and around in circles trying to find a vein. Trying not to panic, and trying not to scare other patients with the look of horror on my face, I calmly suggested the other arm. She did, and instead of gently sliding the needle in, she jabbed hard. I could not mask my face at that moment, and apologized to the nice Filippino lady watching the scene. I tried to tell her it didn't really hurt. I think she knew I was lying. Fortunately the needle-lady didn't have to dig too hard to finally produce some blood.

I left the clinic knowing I had to go back again. Chef Aaron had a good laugh at my expense for not being able to go #2 at the clinic. I have to admit, it is rather humorous and embarrassing all at the same time. Also problematic, as it turns out. The following day I had to attend a class, and the day after was Chef's day off. I didn't have time to go on any other day. Chef suggested I take my cup to the class and just swing by the clinic afterwards--if I was able to produce a sample, that is. I really didn't like that idea. Who wants to carry their own feces around with them, especially to a class on food hygiene? The irony of the situation was a bit hilarous, and Chef and I joked about how to hide my sample. He suggested a bag from our bakery, with all of our company branding. I was pretty sure our boss would not approve. Then I pointed out a good-sized box. I could surprise the clinic with a generous sample. Other speculated recepticles: ziplock bag and/or Big Gulp cup. The best part of the conversation: Chef Aaron was holding a Giant Cupcake cake mold to his chest in way that made him look like he had breasts--one of which resembling Madonna's pointy Gualtier outfit. I had tears streaming from my eyes from looking at him like that.

The following morning I did indeed have to go--right before it was time to leave for my class. Not really convenient, eh? I complained to Chef Aaron, and he suggested I get my sample and leave it in the office, away from food, obviously, and go to the clinic afterwards. I did, and informed the Chef where my sample was. As I informed him, "I don't want to lose my pooh." At this point all barriers of embarrassment about human functions were down since all my coworkers were aware of my little dilemma. And I was getting asked how my sample was coming. On the ride to our class, I informed one barista, Ivy, that my sample was complete and that I would be taking it to the clinic afterwards. "But Chef," she began, "the clinic closes at four, and we won't be back until five. Your stool will be no good." Of course. Why would this go smoothly? I prayed that our class would end quickly, but in the end I learned that the clinic closed at two. My attempts at getting the worst test done were useless. I was stuck in class on hygiene, and oh so ironically my pooh was at the bakery becoming entirely useless. I got back from the class, asked chef to "hand me my pooh" so I could throw it away, and went home to have another cup of laxative tea. (It's the only way I'm regular.)

The next day I went to the clinic provide my sample there. I remembered to grab a disposible spoon. I went to room #6 and the fellow working there remembered me. Not sure how I felt about that. He could have remembered me because I was one of the rare white faces in a sea of tan ones...or it could be because I was the first person he ever saw freak out over the inability to have bowel movements on command, and share the results with others. Thanks to some good tea, and a lot of prayers, my mission was accomplished. (Yes indeed. God does hear and answer all kinds of prayers.) I still don't know yet if I am parasite free, but I seriously better have a few bugs to merit going through that process.

Of course if I did, then I would have to go through the whole process again. Ick.