Here's how it went in Moscow last week:
Neurologist (through my Russian translator): "Stand up, close your eyes, and touch your index finger to your nose." I succeeded. "Sit down," she said, nodding toward a chair by her desk. She wrote a page in my little assigned book, akin to a blue book used for finals, and stamped an official document, not once, but twice.
One down, seven doctors to go.
Oncologist: "Have you ever had cancer?" No, I said. "Take off your shirt," he said, gesturing for me to stand behind a white screen. I held up my arms and he examined my breasts. "Put your shirt back on," he directed, wrote another page in my little book, and stamped the official document two times.
Psychiatrist: "I see you are from Texas," he said. I was born in Texas, I offered, I don't live there anymore. "Texas is a big state, yes?" he asked, and continued, "There's desert there, and mountains and seaside?" Yes, I said. End of conversation. He wrote his page and stamped the official document, twice as a psychiatrist, twice as an addictions specialist.
Zdravstvuyte, I said to the Immunologist. (Hello.) "Вы говорите по-русски?" the doctor asked. ("Do you speak Russian?") Only a few phrases, I said and countered, Do you speak English? The doctor smiled and spoke through my translator. "At this point in time it appears to be much more vital that you learn Russian than that I learn English!" We both laughed. "Did you have all your shots when you were a child?" Yes, I said. She wrote her page, and stamped, stamped the official document.
"Come back in two hours," our hospital escort said. "Your next doctor will be back then." Zhenia my translator and I walked to Red Square, posed for photos by a fountain, bought ice cream from a Nestle push-cart vendor, and I found postcards of the Kremlin for a 7th grader at my school who's writing a report on Russia.
Pulmonologist: "Take off your shirt." I'd worn my pretty lacy bra, the one I bought last summer on Union Street in San Francisco. "Now breathe in and out," she said, listening to my chest through a stethoscope. She motioned for me to put my shirt back on and scribbled out a page. Stamp. Stamp.
General Practitioner: "Take off your pants." Including my panties? I asked. "Nyet." I took off my jeans and sat on the indicated table. She rapped my knees with a little hammer, testing my knee-jerk reflex. "Put your pants on," she said abruptly, and proceeded like the others. The Dermatologist, my eighth and final doctor, made equal haste.
Paint was cracked and crumbling in many corners. Doctors’ desks lacked computers. Telephones, relics from the ‘70s. I didn't see a patient all day, only one other adoptive mom, well-heeled from Sweden, 50ish. For three summers she'd hosted Sergei, now 11, at her home outside Stockholm where he and other Moscow orphans attended soccer camp. The camp was bankrolled, she explained, by a rich Russian hockey player. She'd fallen in love with the boy and aimed to adopt him.
Exams done, official document crowded with stamps and signatures, Zhenia and I returned to the front desk to pay. The receptionist smiled wryly. She picked up the phone and called the Adoption Director. Zhenia spoke to him and quickly hung up. "He shouted,” she said. "He told me not to speak to the front desk and to meet him in the courtyard."
We waited on a bench outside. My Swedish compatriot walked by and we wished each other good luck and god-speed. After 10 minutes, the director strode briskly into the courtyard, conspicuous in his jeans and flamboyant floral shirt. Zhenia and I referred to him thereafter as Disco Boy. "This will be $800," he told me. "I'm giving you a $50 discount since you were here three months ago." Please will you consider going a little lower? I asked. "I'm taking a loss already," he said, "and this is less than what you'd pay at the other medical centers." I opened my travel purse, where I'd separated rubles in an envelope marked with orange marker from dollars in an envelope marked with green. I reached into the green envelope and counted out eight crisp $100 bills. The director pocketed the cash and walked away.
The proverbial ball is now back in the judge's hands in Murmansk. She has my updated medical documentation, along with the requested licenses of the town assessor who'd signed a letter attesting to the worth of my house, of the psychologist who attested that I show no aggressive tendencies, and of the CPA who reported on my income, investments and federal tax returns. Let’s hope the judge reviews my paperwork soon and finds everything in order. Daniil and Mama wait.
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