Some time ago, as per immigration office procedures, my coteacher drove me to the nearest hospital - which turns out to be like two towns over. Long drives like that accentuate the awkward relationship between my coteacher Mr. Jeong and myself, because on the one hand, he doesn't want to get too friendly (it's fairly conservative here) - being a husband with a young wife and two kids - but on the other hand, it gets really awkward in silence if no one says anything for more than ten minutes.
So we arrive at some place called Siheung, and that's apparently where the hospital is. I follow Mr. Jeong around, because I can't read any of the signs or understand any of the people, so I can't sign in and listen to instructions on my own. So he asks at the info desk, and then we go up an escalator to the second floor, where he looks for the occupational health department. He fills out the form for me, asking for my blood type and other vital information.
We make small talk over food and whatever else comes to mind. It occurs to me that this guy is closer to me than my father ever will be. It makes me sad and a little wistful.
I feel displaced, somewhat lost, but not bad. First they take my blood pressure and temperature. They take an X-ray of my lungs and spine. I had to pee in a cup, awkwardly carrying it back out until I put it in a tray, where they tell me to make a fist. I watch them draw blood through a syringe, wondering why blood bubbles when you take it out like that. It's more crimson than cranberry juice, almost maroon.
Because they can't make me understand in their language, they have to show me, but pointing, poking, prodding, guiding me in the right directions. Next time, my coteacher still has to hand in my alien registration papers.
So we arrive at some place called Siheung, and that's apparently where the hospital is. I follow Mr. Jeong around, because I can't read any of the signs or understand any of the people, so I can't sign in and listen to instructions on my own. So he asks at the info desk, and then we go up an escalator to the second floor, where he looks for the occupational health department. He fills out the form for me, asking for my blood type and other vital information.
We make small talk over food and whatever else comes to mind. It occurs to me that this guy is closer to me than my father ever will be. It makes me sad and a little wistful.
I feel displaced, somewhat lost, but not bad. First they take my blood pressure and temperature. They take an X-ray of my lungs and spine. I had to pee in a cup, awkwardly carrying it back out until I put it in a tray, where they tell me to make a fist. I watch them draw blood through a syringe, wondering why blood bubbles when you take it out like that. It's more crimson than cranberry juice, almost maroon.
Because they can't make me understand in their language, they have to show me, but pointing, poking, prodding, guiding me in the right directions. Next time, my coteacher still has to hand in my alien registration papers.
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