Some weeks later, my back is still not feeling much better. While we have tried most of the folk remedies not involving "eye of toad and tail of newt", my friend Lyubomir finally called a doctor for me. I thought about taking a translator with me, but decided against it. It seemed like a doctor's visit would be more exotic without a translator.
Somewhere in the middle of my appointment when I was explaining my "slipped capital femural epyphysis" operation - I really wish I had brought one. Thankfully, the clinic had the internet and google translate knows all.
My doctor was a short, hairy fellow. He certainly could have been middle-eastern, but his name was pure Ukrainian nationalist. I wondered if he was perhaps ersatz - like the Chinese-American doctor named Chris(tmas) Carol. But, he was very pleasant to talk to - and we talked for over 40 minutes. My friend had recommended a private, Catholic clinic. It was miles above the state-owned hospitals. It was modern, clean, and inexpensive by my standards. The doctor gladly repeated himself three times whenever it was needed. He asked a lot of questions, and when he found out that my mom had undergone back surgery, he immediately sent me down to get an MRI.
As I walked down the bright, clean hallway - it morphed into the most hideous, Soviet prison my mind could imagine. It suddenly dawned on me that I had never really gone to the doctor alone for anything serious before. Then it dawned on me that perhaps something was seriously wrong - and I felt so incredibly alone.
I texted Olya, one of my closest friends, and asked her to come and sit with me. She texted back that she was in Poland. It was cavalier, one of those, "Olya can't come to the phone right now because she's in Poland" messages. I didn't want to call any of the students from the student center and get the gossip cart rolling - and I nervously clicked through my contact list to think of someone outside the community who might be free and willing to come sit at the clinic with me.
My friend Den's name popped up. We met through my friend Valya who is fashionable and hip and who know's everyone who is anyone in this city. Den works for a film festival, and looks like that's about right. Den looks a little bit like Johnny Depp, but not so very masculine; and when he talks he sounds a bit like a self-conscious Truman Capote. He's a new friend, but very fun to be around. I enjoy spending time with Den because we both get to practice language - but it is never forced. We will talk in Ukrainian and I forget and start into English until he forgets and we switch back and forth this way. It never feels like I am giving an English lesson or taking a Ukrainian lesson.
He promised he would be waiting for me when I finished the MRI. And immediately my fears subsided a bit - which is good because it was at this point that they pulled me into the room.
They put me into a small closet and the attendant mumbled something. Thankfully, I've had enough screening and examinations to know the drill and quickly changed out of my clothes into the paper poncho.
Boy, does being being squeezed into a paper-thin, plexi-clear, paper poncho designed for a tiny Ukrainian make me forget that I actually speak Ukrainian. The nurse came and asked me a series of very serious, ominous questions. His tone imbued each one with a sense of life or death, and yet it was as if I had just landed in this country that morning. The only thought running through my head was, "I need an adult!" - and finally he switched into English and asked me if I had ever had an MRI before. I said yes and we proceeded to the room.
My last MRI had cost 300 times more than this one would - and the only difference was I had listed to Bach during it. This room was filled with odd techno-music. I thought this was bizarre - but when the machine startled it's rattles and poundings, it seemed to fit the music nicely.
I fell asleep instantly and was relieved forty minutes later to get to put my clothes back on. Den was waiting out in the lobby as promised. I sat down next to him and we talked a little bit about what might be wrong. I looked up and noticed that the woman working in the coat room was staring at us. We must have looked an odd pair, because her expression read, "Don't you know this is a Catholic clinic?" Den noticed what I was noticing and began to laugh. "Yes, the woman at reception had the same look when I said that I was not your translator, but just a friend." We both laughed, which made Scowly McCoatroom very nervous.
We sat for a while longer as the sounds of techno music left my ears and coat-room woman's scowl melted away. And we got up and began the long, slow, walk home.
(to be continued ...)
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