Scrubs on Parade

When I was “hired” by my school via email back in New York, I was told my employment was conditional on my successful completion of a week-long training program and, in big black letters: PASSING A MEDICAL EXAM. At three separate points during the interview process, I was reminded that immediately upon my arrival in Seoul, this medical test would be administered, and should I fail, I would not be hired. Or reimbursed for my airfare. Or allowed to stay at the hotel. Or helped with any travel arrangements I would need to make after basically being kicked to a very foreign curb.

The problem was that while they reiterated the words “medical exam” in nearly every correspondence, there were no specifics as to what exactly they were testing for. I assumed that a drug screen was pretty mandatory, but beyond that would they be booting people with medical conditions that they simply didn’t want to deal with? And what was involved with the medical test exactly? Pee in a cup? Blood? Hair? Running on a hamster wheel?

Ever the hypochondriac, I immediately began worrying that my rare and terminal cancer I’d been unwittingly carrying around for years was going to rear its ugly head and not only would I be given two weeks to live, I wouldn’t have enough money to do anything on my Things to Do When I’m Told I Have Two Weeks To Live list. And none of those things were in Seoul.

I’m only slightly exaggerating my hypochondria. After spending a couple months working on the PR for a multiple sclerosis medication in New York, I had slowly convinced myself that I had MS. I would be writing copy that helped illustrate the symptoms for the disease, and suddenly notice I had all of them. Headaches? Check. Sudden forgetfulness? Check. Random tripping and falling? All over it. This lead to me actually scheduling a MRI during a lunch break. It was in the waiting room where I came up with my Things to Do When I’m Told I Have Two Weeks to Live list. During all of this, I managed to convince my roommate that she too was afflicted with the irreversible disease, and explained that she should also go in for a MRI as soon as possible; the earlier the disease is diagnosed, the earlier treatment can begin. Two weeks later, we both had beautiful pictures of our healthy brains and the rest of our friends making fun of us.

So by the time I arrived for my first day of training and was told the medical exam would be later that afternoon, I was pretty sure it was going to be leukemia.

After a short morning introduction (why waste too much time training people who might be carrying deadly diseases around?), we were given a map to the hospital that consisted of two landmarks – the training center and the hospital, with what seemed like one short road connecting the two. Just go left and then straight and then right and you’ll see it. We had been in the country for less than twenty-four hours, were still jet-lagged out of our minds, and had no idea where we were, let alone where the hospital was. And so, equipped with what might as well have been a map of Toledo, forty or so foreigners bumbled “left” down the street.

Just takin' the IV for a walk.

Fifteen minutes later, almost positive we had gone the wrong way, we slowly began passing people wearing hospital robes strolling down the street.  Unable to ask “where’s the hospital and why aren’t you there?” we just kept walking upstream and eventually found the party – the hospital parking lot and stairs were littered with patients milling around. Some were in wheelchairs, others toted around their IVs, and the rest were nonchalantly chatting and smoking. This wasn’t abnormal to me – outside most hospitals you find patients gathered, getting some fresh air. The difference here was patients weren’t just standing outside, they were steadily coming and going from the hospital grounds – each dressed in identical hospital scrubs and slippers, some carrying shopping bags from their excursions.

Still consumed by my pending prognosis (which would inevitably have to be translated by an unsympathetic nurse in broken English: “you die soon. Sorry.”), it wasn’t until I moved to Busan that I began to notice similarly attired patients wandering around the streets of my neighborhood. I have done absolutely no research and have yet to ask my kids about this, but after seeing the tenth patient of the day while getting a slice of pizza tonight, it will be the first topic of discussion in class tomorrow.

I’m all for patient freedom and I’m sure when I come down with whatever is going to tragically cut my life decades too short, I’ll want to get out of my sterile room and grab some air. But from what I know about medicine, the rooms are sterile for a reason. Squatting on the street corner and smoking cigarettes is probably not recommended by your physician – and as far as I’m concerned, if you’re not healthy enough to put on proper clothes, you’re not healthy enough to be standing next to me at the grocery store. Coughing. But then again, maybe getting apples and ruining my appetite all in one shot was on their Things to Do When I’m Told I Have Two Weeks to Live list.