At the Soonawalla's.
My doctor's surname was Soonawalla, which I recognized as Parsi.
Parsi names tend to be occupational -- the equivalent of Carpenter, Mason, etc. The "walla(h)" suffix I knew meant "seller," so I was kinda curious just what it was the gynecologist sold.
Rather anticlimactically, "soona" turned out to be a corruption of the word for "gold." Too bad -- such possibilities.
The process of getting an appointment was pure India.
First, the receptionist put me down for 4 PM.
Then she asked, "Have you got your reports?"
"My what now?"
"You're a new patient."
"Yes."
"Right, we have to get you registered. You better come at 5."
After I hung up, I realized I was confused. Was I supposed to come at 4 to do paperwork for an appointment at 5? Otherwise, why would coming at 5 generate less paperwork than an appointment at 4? The receptionist's tone had been exasperation overlaid with pure irritation, so I didn't relish calling back.
I decided to split the difference, add a dash of anxiety, and arrive at 4:20. I fill out forms fast.
The doctor's office turned out to be the dank first floor of a crumbling Mumbai apartment building. I wanted to bolt. But inside was clean and doctor's office-y, with reassuringly standard doctor's office art in the waiting room (is there a central international issuance depot somewhere in Antwerp, or something?), and medical receptionists who bore internationally-recognizable expressions of harriedness and warning.
I gave my name and explained I was 40 minutes early, and why.
"Have you got your reports?"
"Er...no."
"Sit down."
Pretty familiar, so far, really.
A clerk eventually called me into a back room to take some information. I don't think I'm reading into it to say that she gave me a pitying look when I said I wasn't married. The question "where do you work?" was preceded by "do you work?" which I found jarring, and I was also asked "are you veg or non-veg?" which, I realized later, I no longer find jarring at all. Actually, I think it's a downright sensible thing for a doctor's office to ask. My weight was taken and recorded in kilograms, and I opted not to calculate the conversion. I explained the routine screenings I wanted to get, and then it was back to the waiting room for me.
K had offered to come with me, but I'd declined. What with Indian gender roles, I'd been concerned he'd have been the only man in the reception area. Instead, it cut the other way: I was the only woman there who didn't come either with her man or with some sort of female relative. I began to worry that we were supposed to bring someone with us, like at the vet's office here, where you're expected to act as your own vet technician or bring along someone who can. I also realized, watching the pregnant women and their relatives with small children, how perfectly designed the sari is both for pregnancy and breast-feeding. What does it say about women's role in a culture when their normal clothing is maternity wear?
Finally, somewhere around 5:30, I was called back to the exam room. The examination table was decked out with full linens and made up like a bed. It was about a third the width of an American table. I don't know that it would've worked for most Americans; it barely worked for me. A nurse came in and reviewed my file. Ignoring the "why I'm here" section, she zeroed in on the important bit.
"Because you're unmarried," she announced, "we'll just be doing an external exam today."
Gentle Reader, I laughed my tuchus off.
The nurse exited, bristling, while I was still chortling.
A personable young "associate doctor" came in to take my blood pressure and help me assume the culturally-prescribed position (which turned out to be kind of a cross between that of the Brits and the Yanks, if you must know). While I was splayed in a rather awkward state, she reviewed my file and zeroed in on the important bit.
"I've already got a U.S. visa," she declared.
"Oh, thank god, " I said, and meant it.
"And I came back." She smiled with a surprising degree of menace.
"Er...quite."
"You people make it so difficult." She waggled a speculum in my face. "So I just want to point out: I came back."
"Ah..yes. Ok. I see."
She leaned in close. "You make sure you tell the others: I. Came. B--"
"--y'know, not to interrupt, but I don't actually work in the visa section at all..."
Deflated, she wandered out, leaving the blood pressure cuff wrapped around my arm.
The main doctor seemed sane, if a little distracted, and clearly in a rush. He was miserly with information, and utterly condescending when pressed for answers. In short: no different from an American doctor.
As I was getting dressed, the nurse barged in and shot me a look of pure hatred. Crisply, she shook out the sheets on the exam table and remade the "bed" for the next patient.
I decided to choose to believe that they had freshly laundered the bedding before my end-of-the-day appointment.
Ewwwww.
Parsi names tend to be occupational -- the equivalent of Carpenter, Mason, etc. The "walla(h)" suffix I knew meant "seller," so I was kinda curious just what it was the gynecologist sold.
Rather anticlimactically, "soona" turned out to be a corruption of the word for "gold." Too bad -- such possibilities.
The process of getting an appointment was pure India.
First, the receptionist put me down for 4 PM.
Then she asked, "Have you got your reports?"
"My what now?"
"You're a new patient."
"Yes."
"Right, we have to get you registered. You better come at 5."
After I hung up, I realized I was confused. Was I supposed to come at 4 to do paperwork for an appointment at 5? Otherwise, why would coming at 5 generate less paperwork than an appointment at 4? The receptionist's tone had been exasperation overlaid with pure irritation, so I didn't relish calling back.
I decided to split the difference, add a dash of anxiety, and arrive at 4:20. I fill out forms fast.
The doctor's office turned out to be the dank first floor of a crumbling Mumbai apartment building. I wanted to bolt. But inside was clean and doctor's office-y, with reassuringly standard doctor's office art in the waiting room (is there a central international issuance depot somewhere in Antwerp, or something?), and medical receptionists who bore internationally-recognizable expressions of harriedness and warning.
I gave my name and explained I was 40 minutes early, and why.
"Have you got your reports?"
"Er...no."
"Sit down."
Pretty familiar, so far, really.
A clerk eventually called me into a back room to take some information. I don't think I'm reading into it to say that she gave me a pitying look when I said I wasn't married. The question "where do you work?" was preceded by "do you work?" which I found jarring, and I was also asked "are you veg or non-veg?" which, I realized later, I no longer find jarring at all. Actually, I think it's a downright sensible thing for a doctor's office to ask. My weight was taken and recorded in kilograms, and I opted not to calculate the conversion. I explained the routine screenings I wanted to get, and then it was back to the waiting room for me.
K had offered to come with me, but I'd declined. What with Indian gender roles, I'd been concerned he'd have been the only man in the reception area. Instead, it cut the other way: I was the only woman there who didn't come either with her man or with some sort of female relative. I began to worry that we were supposed to bring someone with us, like at the vet's office here, where you're expected to act as your own vet technician or bring along someone who can. I also realized, watching the pregnant women and their relatives with small children, how perfectly designed the sari is both for pregnancy and breast-feeding. What does it say about women's role in a culture when their normal clothing is maternity wear?
Finally, somewhere around 5:30, I was called back to the exam room. The examination table was decked out with full linens and made up like a bed. It was about a third the width of an American table. I don't know that it would've worked for most Americans; it barely worked for me. A nurse came in and reviewed my file. Ignoring the "why I'm here" section, she zeroed in on the important bit.
"Because you're unmarried," she announced, "we'll just be doing an external exam today."
Gentle Reader, I laughed my tuchus off.
The nurse exited, bristling, while I was still chortling.
A personable young "associate doctor" came in to take my blood pressure and help me assume the culturally-prescribed position (which turned out to be kind of a cross between that of the Brits and the Yanks, if you must know). While I was splayed in a rather awkward state, she reviewed my file and zeroed in on the important bit.
"I've already got a U.S. visa," she declared.
"Oh, thank god, " I said, and meant it.
"And I came back." She smiled with a surprising degree of menace.
"Er...quite."
"You people make it so difficult." She waggled a speculum in my face. "So I just want to point out: I came back."
"Ah..yes. Ok. I see."
She leaned in close. "You make sure you tell the others: I. Came. B--"
"--y'know, not to interrupt, but I don't actually work in the visa section at all..."
Deflated, she wandered out, leaving the blood pressure cuff wrapped around my arm.
The main doctor seemed sane, if a little distracted, and clearly in a rush. He was miserly with information, and utterly condescending when pressed for answers. In short: no different from an American doctor.
As I was getting dressed, the nurse barged in and shot me a look of pure hatred. Crisply, she shook out the sheets on the exam table and remade the "bed" for the next patient.
I decided to choose to believe that they had freshly laundered the bedding before my end-of-the-day appointment.
Ewwwww.
1 Comments:
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Anonymous said...
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- 8:16 AM
Post a CommentWell it's good to read that the Indian doctors behave the same in their own country as they do in the States. When you say, "In short: no different from an American doctor", you're forgetting that most MDs here seeing patients are from India now. My primary is from just outside Mumbai. So after reading all the description, what's the bottom line? Test results, please!
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