A Busy Week:

Monday: Payday and it is all cash and comes in a brown envelope. For a minute I feel like a guy who just took the down payment to do a contract on someone and I am conscious of the money until I finally make it home. The first purchase is a hard drive for my computer and the rest of it goes into the bank or back to the states. I guess that is the problem with being poor; it is the same no matter where you are.

Tuesday: Lydia picks me up and we head to the bank so I can open an account and wire some money home. We also need to get some kind of sticker to put on the old couch so that we can put it by the curb for heavy trash pick up. The bank is not that exciting, although I do sort of feel like a non-existent entity as Lydia and the banker lady chat with one and other and I simply hand over stacks of money when they nod at me. This process takes about an hour and fifteen minutes and in the end I am sick of banks. I never did much care for them, this only further confirmed it. But I now only need to take in some paperwork and I can transfer money to the states with little fanfare. So I guess it was worth it.

I celebrate during my between class break by getting a hair cut. It was not really a big del and the only thing worth mentioning is that before it was my turn in the chair this little kid was getting his hair cut and when it came to call it “done,” the kid’s mother came up and basically made the barber re-cut the kid’s hair. Then, after she was satisfied, she took the boy over to a sink and washed and dried his hair. It seemed a little “too much” and I sort of felt bad for him. With me, I simply tried to gesture that I only wanted a little cut off and he did a fine job. When some of my students saw me in the chair I became an object to watch. I am hoping that one day the stares will diminish.

Wednesday: Nothing. I didn’t do a damned thing. But I did start to feel a scratchiness in my throat that wasn’t there before. I find this a bit alarming but nothing to be totally freaked out about.

Thursday: David calls and says that today is the day that we should go and see the Doctor. This is good because I am running out of pills and this scratchy feeling is really starting to kick my ass and is turning into a cough that is more than annoying. He arrives right at 11 am and we head towards downtown. The day is sunny and the traffic is nothing to be too concerned about.

Once downtown the only problem is where we must wait for traffic to clear at the two major intersections in town. One is a junction of six roads and the other is a junction of five. If you show up at the wrong moment you will be sitting through the entire cycle and that seems to last forever. We only have to wait at the second one and that wasn’t too bad. We are lucky as David thinks he knows where this “clinic” is and we find a nearby parking spot, not an easy task as to the untrained eye it appears that these people park anywhere they feel like. There are rules; I simply don’t know what they are. So we park and start looking for the “clinic” and this is becoming a task with David going into one pharmacy after another trying to figure out where this place is. As per usual I am zero help in all of this and simply stand around and enjoy the sporadic fits of coughing that are developing within my body. It is starting to hurt and I am not pleased and David finally returns with the information that the “clinic” has moved to the other side of the junction so we must return to the car and now drive on.

After about 10 minutes of waiting and searching we finally find the “clinic” and head up the three flights of stairs to the office. The room is almost bare except for a couch and a TV and the walls are this institutional green color that signifies . . . “Clean” perhaps? “Doctor’s Office?” I mean, if there were some magazines or something . . . there is the standard water machine that is in every Korean place. No artwork. Just green walls and a woman sitting quietly behind a long desk and two doors, one to her right and one behind; she barely looks up as we enter the room.

David explains to her why I am here and then I print my name and sign on some sheet of paper. After I return it to her, she goes to the door on her right, opens it, goes in and returns quickly, motioning for us to enter the room.

The room is an office with a desk, a couch, a couple of chairs and some weird contraption that appears to measure brain waves. On the wall are two long book cases and they are filled with psychiatry books and there are two that immediately catch my eye: obviously the DSM IV is nice to see but there is a book on psychopharmacology. I have no idea when it was written but I am pleased that there are many titles in English and that there is a good chance that what I deal with on a daily basis isn’t so rare.

He and David begin talking and I pull out my two bottles of pills and place them on the desk and once again, much like at the bank, I feel as though I am only here for comic relief or to hand these guys props as needed. They continue to look at the drugs and I am trying to stress the fact that the Depakote is a non issue as I have a shit load of that. But the Doctor still keeps looking at it as if it is the riddle of the sphinx and I am becoming very jittery, and he goes behind a curtain and David explains that he is looking up something on the internet and I keep trying to stress that I don’t care about the Depakote and then the Doctor returns and says that he can get me the generic of the Depakote and I tell him that this is wonderful but that what I really need is the Effexor and I quickly begin to look for something sharp on his desk to jab him with if he doesn’t get on the task that I have placed in front of him.

So far this guy has not said a word in English and now he is looking in some book with Korean script and talking with David and my anxiety level is shooting through the roof. He leaves to go back behind the curtain and David asks me what will happen if I don’t get the drugs that I need and I tell him that I am not certain but I would rather not find out as once you start taking them it is really not in your best interest to suddenly stop. They are supposed to be in your system at a constant level and to disrupt the flow is not a good idea. I can’t tell if anything that I have said has made a lick of sense and with that the Doctor returns and in perfect English says: “You take these for mood fluctuations, yes? In Korea we don’t have the strength of the Effexor that you want but we have half of that, so just take two. How many months do you want it for?”

Sheepishly I say two and then he and David go back to talking and I am once again the big white mass in the room. After awhile the prescription is printed up and he hands it across the table to me and I tell him thank you. As we leave the office David explains to me that because it is my first visit here I am getting the discounted price of $3 USD. I am told that the normal rate is $5.

A trip to the pharmacy and now I have my drugs. They weren’t cheap but David thinks that my insurance company will reimburse me for the expense. No one lost an eye due to a chopstick thrust and I didn’t throw hot soup on anyone. It was just a complicated process that I get to try and repeat in two months time. At least this time I will be prepared.

Friday: That scratchiness is now a full blown cold with a bunch of green shit coming up with each couching fit. It is at this point that I become convinced that children are simply little germ factories and that they need to be culled just like the chickens and other fowl that are causing Europe to panic. They sneeze, they cough, they never wash their hands, they touch everything . . . Yes, they are little machines that are out to cause great harm and this little wave of pain that is shooting through my body is but another warning shot.

“Oh, the karate kid, she ain’t shit: if prodded we have fully developed bio-weapons and have no qualms about using them. Take another deep breath asshole, feel our wraith! HAHAHAHA.”

By six o’clock I must have a co-worker explain and write down what my symptoms are and then I head over to the pharmacy in the hopes that some Asian remedy can be found before death rears his ugly hear. At this point I can feel him sharpening his scythe and I hear his footsteps coming towards my door. On the way home from work I buy nine liters of water and figure that this will be the weekend where I will either survive or die a hideous death are the dirty hands of children.

Saturday: I pray for death. He does not come.

Sunday: I again pray for death. He does not come.

Monday: I start to feel better. Death can find something else to do.

Tuesday: I am feeling much better. The cough is still there but I think the worst of it is behind me. I now feel as though I am once again part of the human race. At this point I think the children have thrown their best at me and I no longer fear them. I simply need to try to get them to behave without actually touching them (those cootie things are real, seriously) and I should be OK. Some days are better than others and I am learning to manage my classes a bit better.

So, sort of a fun week. Glad I had to only do it once. Hope all is well,

Peace,

sh