Another hurdle: Mysterious health exam
By Emily Ford |
May 2, 2012, Wednesday
|
Print Edition
Print Edition
EDITOR'S note:
Shanghai Settler is a new, weekly column by British journalist Emily Ford, a former Times reporter who recently arrived in town to cover business, the luxury industry and a range of issues for Shanghai Daily. Armed with some Mandarin, she describes daily challenges with wit and insight into issues such as renting a flat, and typically pokes fun at her own assumptions and missteps as she muddles along. Readers' comments and suggestions are welcome. Contact Emily Ford at emilyford1@ymail.com or write to features@shanghaidaily.com.
I've heard about it, of course, but in the midst of the many obstacles to overcome in moving country, I'd pushed it to the back of my mind.
Yet suddenly here it is, this morning, unavoidable. The medical exam, a mandatory requirement - under China's frontier health and quarantine law - for all foreigners who want to stay in China.
Most of the exam takers I know do not talk about it, with the exception of a former colleague who has his and his wife's chest X-rays in frames on the wall. One mumbles something about "electrodes" before walking away.
It is unclear exactly what the doctors are checking for. Some say tuberculosis, some hepatitis, others AIDS. An Internet search adds venereal diseases, leprosy and the ominously nondescript "mental disorder."
Medical details most Brits consider too personal to tell their partners will be printed out for my manager to read. "This is China," I think. "They have 1.3 billion people in the health-care system. They can't afford to let in weaklings."
A friendly secretary comes to pick me up. Until this point I have been feeling relatively smug, having secretly cashed in a BUPA (British United Provident Association) health insurance check a few weeks before I left. "Surely you can't have developed anything that quickly," I tell myself.
In the space of a car ride, I somehow become a fully fledged hypochondriac. By the time we arrive at the checking center I am convinced that my feeble Western constitution will not make the grade.
Inside, a pack of white-gowned foreigners, pale and wide-eyed, move like zombies between rooms, not making eye contact. The whole thing appears to be a kind of clinical assault course, the objective being to make it to the next exam as quickly as you can, while various parts of your body are scraped, pinned, punctured, scanned and probed. Communication is kept to an impressive minimum.
"Room 104," a nurse yells at me. I look around but can only see rooms 102 and 103. "Perhaps this is part of the test," I think in a panic. "A surprise element they throw in to check alertness and sprinting skills."
Room 104 looks like the blood test, but I can't be sure. I sit in a chair and think longingly of the BUPA nurse, who spoke to me as if I were a small child. "This might hurt a little," I remember her saying, with unimaginable tenderness. "You might want to look the other way."
A vicious jab snaps me out of my reverie. I look down to where a needle is already protruding from my arm, and mentally add "bedside manner" to a list of nice but ultimately useless traits that explain why Britain no longer leads the world.
"Right arm!" the nurse says. There is no blood. I gauge from her expression that the veins in my left arm are too narrow. "Great. Even my veins won't pass," I think.
I have a flashback to a sci-fi film I once saw in which Ethan Hawke injects himself with genetically flawless blood to fool eugenics testers. That wouldn't get past these guys, no way. "Oh God." I think. "Now I'm hallucinating. They'll definitely pick up on that."
I enter a kind of dreamlike state in which everything is white and I am covered with gel and wires, then in a darkened X-ray chamber, being told to take off my gown in front of a giant screen. "I thought the point was that X-rays can see through clothes," I think, but I say nothing.
Before I know it, I am back in the car. The Chinese doctors have carried out more tests in 15 minutes than BUPA managed in two hours. "How did it go?" the secretary asks. "Oh, it was fine. Quite fun, actually," I say breezily. "They're very efficient. It's really not that bad."
Shanghai Settler is a new, weekly column by British journalist Emily Ford, a former Times reporter who recently arrived in town to cover business, the luxury industry and a range of issues for Shanghai Daily. Armed with some Mandarin, she describes daily challenges with wit and insight into issues such as renting a flat, and typically pokes fun at her own assumptions and missteps as she muddles along. Readers' comments and suggestions are welcome. Contact Emily Ford at emilyford1@ymail.com or write to features@shanghaidaily.com.
I've heard about it, of course, but in the midst of the many obstacles to overcome in moving country, I'd pushed it to the back of my mind.
Yet suddenly here it is, this morning, unavoidable. The medical exam, a mandatory requirement - under China's frontier health and quarantine law - for all foreigners who want to stay in China.
Most of the exam takers I know do not talk about it, with the exception of a former colleague who has his and his wife's chest X-rays in frames on the wall. One mumbles something about "electrodes" before walking away.
It is unclear exactly what the doctors are checking for. Some say tuberculosis, some hepatitis, others AIDS. An Internet search adds venereal diseases, leprosy and the ominously nondescript "mental disorder."
Medical details most Brits consider too personal to tell their partners will be printed out for my manager to read. "This is China," I think. "They have 1.3 billion people in the health-care system. They can't afford to let in weaklings."
A friendly secretary comes to pick me up. Until this point I have been feeling relatively smug, having secretly cashed in a BUPA (British United Provident Association) health insurance check a few weeks before I left. "Surely you can't have developed anything that quickly," I tell myself.
In the space of a car ride, I somehow become a fully fledged hypochondriac. By the time we arrive at the checking center I am convinced that my feeble Western constitution will not make the grade.
Inside, a pack of white-gowned foreigners, pale and wide-eyed, move like zombies between rooms, not making eye contact. The whole thing appears to be a kind of clinical assault course, the objective being to make it to the next exam as quickly as you can, while various parts of your body are scraped, pinned, punctured, scanned and probed. Communication is kept to an impressive minimum.
"Room 104," a nurse yells at me. I look around but can only see rooms 102 and 103. "Perhaps this is part of the test," I think in a panic. "A surprise element they throw in to check alertness and sprinting skills."
Room 104 looks like the blood test, but I can't be sure. I sit in a chair and think longingly of the BUPA nurse, who spoke to me as if I were a small child. "This might hurt a little," I remember her saying, with unimaginable tenderness. "You might want to look the other way."
A vicious jab snaps me out of my reverie. I look down to where a needle is already protruding from my arm, and mentally add "bedside manner" to a list of nice but ultimately useless traits that explain why Britain no longer leads the world.
"Right arm!" the nurse says. There is no blood. I gauge from her expression that the veins in my left arm are too narrow. "Great. Even my veins won't pass," I think.
I have a flashback to a sci-fi film I once saw in which Ethan Hawke injects himself with genetically flawless blood to fool eugenics testers. That wouldn't get past these guys, no way. "Oh God." I think. "Now I'm hallucinating. They'll definitely pick up on that."
I enter a kind of dreamlike state in which everything is white and I am covered with gel and wires, then in a darkened X-ray chamber, being told to take off my gown in front of a giant screen. "I thought the point was that X-rays can see through clothes," I think, but I say nothing.
Before I know it, I am back in the car. The Chinese doctors have carried out more tests in 15 minutes than BUPA managed in two hours. "How did it go?" the secretary asks. "Oh, it was fine. Quite fun, actually," I say breezily. "They're very efficient. It's really not that bad."
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