Wow, I can't believe I have been here for over two weeks!!! Time is flying by. Sigh. I find myself needing to stop for just a minute to take it all in.
Let's since I left off I've been to the Russian church twice, the International service, had medical exams for needed to eventually get my visa, gotten around town quite a bit more, learned some new words, been working at the office, had two houseguests, one which has become my new roommate, attended a conference on prevention of human trafficking, had dinner with my new boss, had some great conversations with my coworkers, been to a Bible study hosted by one of the Russian pastors, and spent some more time with my Moldovan friends.
Sorry, that was a bit of a mental dump. I've so much to share with ya'll, but I'll start with the adventure into the medical system of Moldova.
Sunday night, I was able to meet two new interns at the international service. Jesse and Sara are here for 7 months to work at a home for trafficked women. Turns out that they were going Monday morning to get the medical examinations necessary for our residency permits. One of the missionaries they were working under, invited me to go along with them. It was a great plan, as their translator was familiar with the process and it meant that no one in my office had to take time away from work to go with me.
So about 9:30 am, I arrived at the Andy's (a pizza restaurant) near the Policlinica. There I waited to be picked up by Jesse, Sara, and Igor. We drove around the street, parked, and after trying a couple of locked doors, made our way into the Policlinica. We gave Igor our passports, and he went and got the appropriate paperwork for us. Then begin the queing.
We stood in this long hallway with rooms off both sides. Moldovans and foreigners alike, mulled around. Some sitting on the benches along the wall, some just standing, and every so often a new person would enter the hall and ask who the last person in line was.
We were warned before hand there was occasional bribery, and that we would have to visit doctor's that we might not actually want to check us out. In which case, well, every case, when they asked if we were ok, we replied, "Yes, I'm fine." Never thought the American propensity to utter this little white lie would ever come in so handy.
There were a few things we couldn't get out of though. The first being a blood withdrawal. What for? Oh, to test if we had Aids and various other diseases and issues...I found it rather ironic to be stabbed with a needle in a underdeveloped country in order to check me for HIV. It wasn't too bad, and Sara happens to be an ER nurse so she was particularly observant of their processes. She assured us that the needles were fine, and on my part, I can verify that the nurse was quick and accurate in finding and puncturing my vein. I've had Red Cross volunteers do worse jobs.
Second unavoidable test would be the chest x-ray. I don't what the x-ray was for, and quite frankly, I don't care. What I did care about was being told to strip from the waist up and standing in a large metal booth with my chin up and my arms down and being radiated with no vest. Delightful. Yeah. They did kick Igor out of the office first, and I'm pretty sure he must've guarded the door, because in all the other offices people just barged in and out. After planting a seed of doubt in our minds about the health of our future children, Sara assured us that we received a minimal amount of radiation and we would probably be fine. Yeah, ignorance was bliss.
Then Igor said we had to go outside to see the next doctor. "Which doctor is next?" I asked. The gynecologist. And sudden confusion clouded out my common sense as I tried to reason why in such a cold country the gynecologist would be outside.
Turns out we had to walk outside to go to the next building. Duh. Blame it on the jet lag.
The doctor eyed us quickly, asked how we were, we responded with quick assurance our standard response, and she stamped and signed our paperwork.
We thought the next doctor might be the one where we had to give a stool and urine sample, which none of us were too thrilled about, so we asked Igor which doctor was next. "You're good," he responsed. "No, which doctor is next?" we asked. "No doctor. I paid. You're good." Ah, bribery, and suddenly I can relate to the ease of giving in to such corruption. After we saw the neurologist (and don't worry, he stamped my paper too), Igor explained that the next doctor we had to see wouldn't be back for another hour/hour and a half. So he steered us off towards Andy's for lunch, then left to run some errands. We made it back to the Policlinica right on time, and finished up pretty shortly thereafter. We would have to return the next day for a few more things.
Major complements to Igor for being so very helpful and kind. Another group of volunteers came through the policlinica shortly after us, and their guide was full-out sprinting up and down the hallway to get in the right offices and put paperwork in the right hands. Our experience was a bit calmer.
Tuesday, quite a bit later in the morning, and a bit flustered from finding out last minute what time to be there, I arrived at the policlinica on my own and located Sara, Jesse, and Elena (who filled in for Igor). The main concern was getting the blood type test. We climbed up the stairs to a much calmer second story and entered another little office. I was instructed to sit down next to the doctor's desk and put my arm on the desk. The doctor picked up my hand, massaged it a bit, and then, before I could even protest, sliced the tip of my finger with a scapel. Now besides being mystified as to why they couldn't just figure out my type from the four vials of blood drawn the previous day, I just really really dislike having my finger pricked, much less sliced. Anyways, the doctor raises my hand with my bloody finger pointing down slides a ceramic dish under my hand. Then she whipped out the scapel and sliced off the tip of my finger!!!
JK, but she did squeeze the blood out of my finger until it dripped into three spots on the dish. She added drops of different chemical solutions to each spot and stirred them with a glass stick. Oh, and handed me a cottonball dipped in alcohol. No band-aid here. Apparently she was able to tell my blood type from the way the blood reacted with the chemical. She scribbled something down and rinsed the dish off. I checked her answer against my Red Cross donor card; A- was correct, good job.
After a look-over and the same staple question from the doctor of infectious diseases, we were pretty much finished. Our paperwork moved around a bit more, and finally we had certificates verifying clean blood, and a half-sheet of paper with the various medical examination categories, the doctors' approval signatures, and about twelve stamps effectively stating that we were healthy. I got a pretty rough cough two days later, but "Yes, I'm fine."
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