Medical Examinations In China: A Laowai Exposed
Last week we made the trek to Fuzhou in order to undergo medical examinations at the only hospital in the province that has been designated fit for the purpose by Australian immigration authorities. As is usually the case after a visit to a Chinese hospital, one leaves with plenty of blogging material.
First, don’t assume that having an appointment system endows a Chinese hospital with a degree of efficiency. On the contrary, it is designed to empower hospital administration staff with the right to turn you away if you don’t have one. I’m fairly confident in my assessment here because every one of the hundreds of foreign visa hopefuls had been given the same appointment time – 8am.
The smart and the temporally challenged turn up at 6am. Those not blessed with such foresight, be it through naivety or lack of savvy, face the following pantomime:
7:50 Arrive at the hospital and ask reception on which floor we might find the immigration examination department. “Eighth floor”, we’re told.
8:00 Decide to take the stairs to the eighth floor to avoid getting squished in the elevator. With no clear indication that we are in the right place we ask a nurse where we should report to first. “Sixth floor”, she replies. Of course. Naturally. Goes without saying.
8:10 Walk down two flights of stairs and approach a window promisingly signed immigration medical examination. We are curtly told to get ourselves a number. This involves a ‘checking in’ procedure to make sure we have an appointment. It’s difficult to see the desk beyond the wall of people in front of it. There’s some semblance of a line, so we stand in it.
8:50 We get to the front of the queue only to be told that we need to pay our medical examination fees before we can register. And where do we pay? “Fifth floor”, came the impatient response. Obviously. Where else? Wife is henceforth dispatched to track down a cashier while I valiantly try to hold a place in the line.
9:15 Wife returns with the necessary proof of payment and we duly get our ticket. There are about a dozen numbers between us and the relevant counter. We drink water to prepare for the urinalysis.
9:50 Our number’s up and we hand our completed medical forms over for inspection. Deep consternation on the other side of the counter as they try to figure out why a foreign man would need a Chinese check-up to go to a foreign land. They either think I’m a spy or an inspector working for the Aussie government.
10:00 Having scrambled over the first couple of hurdles we’re summoned to enter the examination area where we are handed a couple of flimsy green gowns and a key to a locker in which we should place everything else. Emerging from the changing room was a bit too public for this laowai. In the service of a better tomorrow, I remind myself, and bravely stride forward to take possession of a small plastic cup and a test tube before heading for the men’s room.
10:15 looking as nonchalant as a lone foreigner holding a urine sample possibly can, I hand my test tube to a disinterested nurse who sends us on our way to the next stage of the medical process – the ominous sounding room 4.
10:20 There’s a slight tailback outside room 4 but they’ve got a pretty efficient production line going. Once inside we’re soon undergoing heart rate, blood pressure, weight, height, and eyesight tests. Blood pressure first – 133 over 75. Obviously I need a bit more stress in my life. Next I’m on the scales, which read 61Kg. Dispelling the notion that gender stereotyping can’t be fun, the nurse scolds my wife for not providing me with sufficient nourishment. They don’t bother with a height measurement, instead asking my wife for a ballpark figure. Eye test instructions were a little lost in translation, but I scrape by. So far, so good; now told to get our asses over to room 5.
10:55 Room 5 is the domain of a doctor who looks old enough to be Mao’s father. He seems to be responsible for testing the range of movement in joints and limbs, as well as noting down any distinguishing features. As instructed, I wiggle my hands and feet for the old fella before impressing him with a yoga-like stretch to the ceiling. Then he asks me to bend over. Say what? I hesitate for a second before reminding myself that he’s about 90 and my wife is in the room. He makes a few notes and we exit the room, relieved.
11:05 The worst is over for me, although my wife still has to go to room 6. It’s strictly girls only in there and I have no news about what went on in that hallowed sanctum. Meanwhile, I’m in a scrum that passes for a line of people waiting to see a man with a stethoscope. Fortunately – there’s at least two dozen onlookers – he doesn’t want to listen to any parts that don’t occasionally get exposed to sunlight. He likes what he hears and sends us next door for a chest x-ray.
11:30 The chest x-ray doctor is in a bad mood but lightens up at the prospect of zapping a laowai with a dose of radiation. Either that or he was laughing at my legs.
11:45 Before midday – and sooner than expected – the whole ordeal is over. We head back to the changing rooms and a nurse informs us that that our urinalyses were in order; so we are free to go and replenish our self-deprived sugar and caffeine levels.
All in all, not my worst China hospital experience.