Today I underwent the required medical exam in preparation for Saudi. It was every bit as, uhm, up close and personal as I thought t would be. It was the sort of experience that normally begins with the participants agreeing on a "safety word." And the doctor didn't even buy me dinner first.
All this uncomfortable getting to know each other was also punctuated by one slightly scary interlude. After a chest x-ray I was told that there was a "spot" on one of my lungs, and that they wanted to take another film to be sure. Since both my father and grandfather died of cancer, this was a little unnerving, to say the least. So off I went, back to radiology. You'd be amazed how slowly fifteen minutes in the waiting area goes by when you're wondering whether you're going to spend the next year in the Middle East, or undergoing a course of chemotherapy. To their credit, the radiologists read the new x-ray right away. It wasn't a tumor. The spot had been caused by (get ready for it)... a nipple shadow.
A nipple shadow. I didn't even know there was such a thing. Sounds like what you'd see on Jessica Simpson's abdomen on a cold day. Yeah, I went there.
So one more step taken. Next up: getting the State Department to give me my damn passport. It's been six weeks since I sent in the renewal, and still nothing. Is it too much to ask that our bloated government bureaucracies be prompt?
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
How Do You Say "Red Tape" In Arabic?
It's 3-and-a-half months before I am scheduled to leave for the Middle East, and I've already learned a few things. The first is that Saudi Arabia is properly referred to as the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, abbreviated as "KSA" or simply "the Kingdom." This is the terminology that Saudis prefer, so it seems appropriate for me, as a guest in their country, to use it. Sort of like how when I have guests I like them to call me "The Baron."
The second thing I've learned is that the Saudis - or at least Saudi officials - love paperwork. In fact, they don't just love paperwork, they LOVE paperwork. They love it in a way that makes the Registry of Motor Vehicles' love of paperwork seem like nothing more than a vague but non-binding preference. I know this because of the sheer volume of paperwork that they have already sent me. My employment contract alone weighed almost a pound. That's right, it had measurable weight. There were six separate documents to it, and each document had to be completed in triplicate. No photocopies. I had to sign my name over twenty times. It's sort of like how I imagine it would be to be president, signing all those documents. Except that, unlike the current president, I can correctly spell my name without assistance well over half the time. I'm also not a draft-dodger, a former cokehead, a spoiled daddy's boy, or a shill for the big oil companies. But that's a different blog entirely.
An interesting side note is the number of times I was asked to state my religion. This really isn't all that surprising, inasmuch as the KSA is a nation dominated by religion. What's really interesting is that "none" is not an acceptable answer. It says that right on the form. It seems that a society centered on religious faith simply cannot get its brain around the idea that not everyone shares their priorities. If I were being honest, then "none" would be my choice. The recruiting agency told me that the simplest thing is to simply put down "Christian," since that's the religion Saudis associate with Americans. That makes sense. Obviously, "Judaism" isn't an option. So, after briefly considering listing myself as a Jedi, I chose the path of least resistance. Pat Robertson would be proud.
The next thing I have to do is get a "Police Clearance Letter" certifying that I am not a criminal. Something tells me that the police in my small New England town are not going to have any idea what I'm talking about. I have visions of myself walking into the police station and asking for a "Police Clearance Letter," only to be met with the kind of expressions that you might get after asking to borrow one of the squad cars for the night because you're going to a crack party and your car is too small for all the hookers to fit. We'll see.
After that I have to have a comprehensive medical exam. And I mean comprehensive. Comprehensive in a way that would cost you a lot of money in the back room of a "gentleman's club" in Rhode Island. And, of course, it has to be accompanied by a prodigious amount of paperwork, which, in an added twist, must be filled out and signed by an MD. Not a nurse practitioner. An MD. They won't even accept a DO (a doctor of osteopathic medicine, which in the United States is equivalent to a traditional MD). Have you ever tried to even get an appointment for a routine physical with an MD? It's nearly impossible. (It's ironic that one of the most common arguments that opponents of socialized medicine like to trot out is that, under such a system, there'd be "long waits" for treatment. Well, I pay a buttload of money for my private medical insurance, and I still had to wait six weeks for an appointment. And that not even with my usual doctor, but one of his partners. Don't those people ever get tired of being stupid douchebags?)
Red tape from 6,000 miles away? That's impressive.
The second thing I've learned is that the Saudis - or at least Saudi officials - love paperwork. In fact, they don't just love paperwork, they LOVE paperwork. They love it in a way that makes the Registry of Motor Vehicles' love of paperwork seem like nothing more than a vague but non-binding preference. I know this because of the sheer volume of paperwork that they have already sent me. My employment contract alone weighed almost a pound. That's right, it had measurable weight. There were six separate documents to it, and each document had to be completed in triplicate. No photocopies. I had to sign my name over twenty times. It's sort of like how I imagine it would be to be president, signing all those documents. Except that, unlike the current president, I can correctly spell my name without assistance well over half the time. I'm also not a draft-dodger, a former cokehead, a spoiled daddy's boy, or a shill for the big oil companies. But that's a different blog entirely.
An interesting side note is the number of times I was asked to state my religion. This really isn't all that surprising, inasmuch as the KSA is a nation dominated by religion. What's really interesting is that "none" is not an acceptable answer. It says that right on the form. It seems that a society centered on religious faith simply cannot get its brain around the idea that not everyone shares their priorities. If I were being honest, then "none" would be my choice. The recruiting agency told me that the simplest thing is to simply put down "Christian," since that's the religion Saudis associate with Americans. That makes sense. Obviously, "Judaism" isn't an option. So, after briefly considering listing myself as a Jedi, I chose the path of least resistance. Pat Robertson would be proud.
The next thing I have to do is get a "Police Clearance Letter" certifying that I am not a criminal. Something tells me that the police in my small New England town are not going to have any idea what I'm talking about. I have visions of myself walking into the police station and asking for a "Police Clearance Letter," only to be met with the kind of expressions that you might get after asking to borrow one of the squad cars for the night because you're going to a crack party and your car is too small for all the hookers to fit. We'll see.
After that I have to have a comprehensive medical exam. And I mean comprehensive. Comprehensive in a way that would cost you a lot of money in the back room of a "gentleman's club" in Rhode Island. And, of course, it has to be accompanied by a prodigious amount of paperwork, which, in an added twist, must be filled out and signed by an MD. Not a nurse practitioner. An MD. They won't even accept a DO (a doctor of osteopathic medicine, which in the United States is equivalent to a traditional MD). Have you ever tried to even get an appointment for a routine physical with an MD? It's nearly impossible. (It's ironic that one of the most common arguments that opponents of socialized medicine like to trot out is that, under such a system, there'd be "long waits" for treatment. Well, I pay a buttload of money for my private medical insurance, and I still had to wait six weeks for an appointment. And that not even with my usual doctor, but one of his partners. Don't those people ever get tired of being stupid douchebags?)
Red tape from 6,000 miles away? That's impressive.
Monday, July 9, 2007
The Journey Begins...
Well, sort of.
Here's the story so far: I'm a nurse at Shriners Burns Hospital in Boston. It's a terrific place to work, and the people there are great. I'm also proud to say that it's almost universally recognized as the premier pediatric burn facility in the world. I've been there for two years, and I can honestly say that I love my job. That's no small thing – in fact, it's a claim that very few people I know can truly make. Nevertheless, Shriners is the only hospital I've worked at since graduating nursing school. So my experience has been kind of limited.
With that in mind, I began to think a while back about broadening my horizons a little bit. And not just professionally, but personally too. A good friend of mine, a classmate from elementary through high school, has lived not just all over the country, but all over the world. That's always made me a little jealous – not least of which because I've always had an interest in other countries and cultures (at least partly out of a hope that other countries aren't as enamored of country music, oversized SUV's, and reality TV as ours seems to be). So the idea began to gel in my mind of putting my nursing skills to work overseas.
It turns out that the nursing shortage so publicized in recent years is not confined to the United States. Just about every country in the world is desperate for nurses. That was good news for me. The bad news was that, since my foreign language skills are limited to schoolboy French and German, and as such are wholly unsuited for the kind of complex interactions required in medicine, my options were somewhat limited. That, I figured, essentially left the English-speaking countries: Canada, the UK, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, and possibly South Africa.
"Hold on," you might say at this point, "Canada isn't a country." But it turns out that it is. They have their own laws and government and everything. Nevertheless, I ruled it out pretty much right off the bat. First, while it's a beautiful and progressive place with many admirable qualities, Canada (at least the English-speaking part) is not so different from the US that it would offer much in the way of an "international" experience. If you were drugged, thrown in the back of a car, and transported to, oh, Edmonton, it's safe to say that it would probably take you a while after coming around to realize that you were in a foreign country at all. Second, Canada is cold. I'm talking testicles-retreating-into-your-body-cavity cold. I get enough of that in Massachusetts – I am sure as hell not looking for more. So Canada was out, eh?
The UK was actually my first choice. Anyone who knows me is well aware that I am an avid anglophile. How much of an anglophile? Let me put it this way: I have a very close friend, a man for whom I would willingly take, say, a crossbow bolt to the thigh. This friend has (jokingly, I hope) suggested that he might get a tattoo of an American eagle spitting fire on a Union Jack (which is correctly referred to as a "Union Flag" unless it is flown at sea – but I digress) because he believes that the English occasionally need to be reminded of the fact that "they got beaten." Despite my love for this man, I have made it very clear that if he actually gets such a tattoo, I would probably be forced to sever all association with him. Now, possibly I've misunderstood our relationship, and that this is not so much a threat as an incentive. But regardless, I think this story accurately illustrates my feelings toward all things British.
Unfortunately, the British don't pay their nurses very well. Even with my experience at a prestigious hospital, I couldn't expect to make more than about $30,000 per year in the UK. Given that the cost of living there is about the same as here, that's just not a possibility. It turns out that the situation is pretty much the same in Ireland, Australia, and New Zealand. It's even worse in South Africa, which has the added minus of having a high crime rate.
So I was starting to lose hope. But, somewhere in the back of my mind was a hazy recollection of hearing that a lot of Americans work in the Middle East, and that the salaries there were typically pretty good. So I fired up The Google. It turns out that my memory was correct. There were many, many sources on the Web advertising nursing jobs in the Gulf states. So, after some research, I contacted a reputable recruiting agency and submitted an application. Within a few weeks I had a telephone interview with the nurse manager of a pediatric surgical unit at a large, prestigious hospital in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Not long afterward I was offered a job.
It's a pretty good deal. The hospital itself is supposed to be a very advanced, highly regarded facility. In fact it prides itself in being the match of any top American hospital for quality of care. It's also gigantic – literally hundreds of beds, quite a jump from Shriners, which has a maximum capacity of only 30 kids! The base salary is respectable by American standards, and that's before overtime (of which, I've been told, there is an ample supply). But that base salary is greatly enhanced by two factors: 1) it's tax-free (I have verified this with the IRS – US citizens resident in foreign countries pay no income tax on earned income up to $82,400), and 2) the hospital provides living accommodations. No taxes, no rent, virtually no financial responsibilities. It's like being Paris Hilton, only without the venereal disease. It's essentially the same as earning 50% more than you would in the States. And since, according to my research, the cost of living in Saudi Arabia is relatively low, it's possible that I could come back from a year in Riyadh having banked some serious scratch. How serious? Well, maybe enough to be in new BMW territory. Pretty tempting.
And Saudi Arabia would certainly provide the exotic foreign experience I'm looking for. In fact, for a Westerner, Saudi Arabia is probably about as exotic as you can get and still be on the planet Earth. Language wouldn't even be an issue, because although Saudis speak Arabic, the hospital conducts all its business in English. They even provide interpreters for the nurses to speak to the patients.
Still, I was ambivalent for a little while. It's a year's commitment, which is a long time. I could miss a lot. For example, one of my friends (the Britain-basher mentioned above, in fact) and his wife will be starting a family soon, so I could miss the birth of their first child. But, as the potential father pointed out, even if they had a baby while I was away, he or she would only be a few months old when I got back – it's not like the little nugget would even know who I was in that time, anyway. There'd still be an entire lifetime of messing with the kid's head for my own amusement. Then I thought about my life one year ago. It really wasn't very different from today. Sure, some minor details have changed. But the fundamentals haven't. I still live in the same place, work at the same job, hang out with he same people. Okay, I drive a different car. But that's about it. So what's a year? It feels long when you're in the middle of it, but when it's over it seems like hardly any time at all.
So in the end I decided to do it. I'm going to Saudi Arabia. There's a lot to do before my departure date, which right now is scheduled for October 31. Turns out moving to a foreign country for a year is sort of a big deal. Who knew? Medical tests, immigration papers, etc., etc. And, of course, setting up a blog with a name that would probably make Peter O'Toole cringe. I'll keep you posted.
Here's the story so far: I'm a nurse at Shriners Burns Hospital in Boston. It's a terrific place to work, and the people there are great. I'm also proud to say that it's almost universally recognized as the premier pediatric burn facility in the world. I've been there for two years, and I can honestly say that I love my job. That's no small thing – in fact, it's a claim that very few people I know can truly make. Nevertheless, Shriners is the only hospital I've worked at since graduating nursing school. So my experience has been kind of limited.
With that in mind, I began to think a while back about broadening my horizons a little bit. And not just professionally, but personally too. A good friend of mine, a classmate from elementary through high school, has lived not just all over the country, but all over the world. That's always made me a little jealous – not least of which because I've always had an interest in other countries and cultures (at least partly out of a hope that other countries aren't as enamored of country music, oversized SUV's, and reality TV as ours seems to be). So the idea began to gel in my mind of putting my nursing skills to work overseas.
It turns out that the nursing shortage so publicized in recent years is not confined to the United States. Just about every country in the world is desperate for nurses. That was good news for me. The bad news was that, since my foreign language skills are limited to schoolboy French and German, and as such are wholly unsuited for the kind of complex interactions required in medicine, my options were somewhat limited. That, I figured, essentially left the English-speaking countries: Canada, the UK, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, and possibly South Africa.
"Hold on," you might say at this point, "Canada isn't a country." But it turns out that it is. They have their own laws and government and everything. Nevertheless, I ruled it out pretty much right off the bat. First, while it's a beautiful and progressive place with many admirable qualities, Canada (at least the English-speaking part) is not so different from the US that it would offer much in the way of an "international" experience. If you were drugged, thrown in the back of a car, and transported to, oh, Edmonton, it's safe to say that it would probably take you a while after coming around to realize that you were in a foreign country at all. Second, Canada is cold. I'm talking testicles-retreating-into-your-body-cavity cold. I get enough of that in Massachusetts – I am sure as hell not looking for more. So Canada was out, eh?
The UK was actually my first choice. Anyone who knows me is well aware that I am an avid anglophile. How much of an anglophile? Let me put it this way: I have a very close friend, a man for whom I would willingly take, say, a crossbow bolt to the thigh. This friend has (jokingly, I hope) suggested that he might get a tattoo of an American eagle spitting fire on a Union Jack (which is correctly referred to as a "Union Flag" unless it is flown at sea – but I digress) because he believes that the English occasionally need to be reminded of the fact that "they got beaten." Despite my love for this man, I have made it very clear that if he actually gets such a tattoo, I would probably be forced to sever all association with him. Now, possibly I've misunderstood our relationship, and that this is not so much a threat as an incentive. But regardless, I think this story accurately illustrates my feelings toward all things British.
Unfortunately, the British don't pay their nurses very well. Even with my experience at a prestigious hospital, I couldn't expect to make more than about $30,000 per year in the UK. Given that the cost of living there is about the same as here, that's just not a possibility. It turns out that the situation is pretty much the same in Ireland, Australia, and New Zealand. It's even worse in South Africa, which has the added minus of having a high crime rate.
So I was starting to lose hope. But, somewhere in the back of my mind was a hazy recollection of hearing that a lot of Americans work in the Middle East, and that the salaries there were typically pretty good. So I fired up The Google. It turns out that my memory was correct. There were many, many sources on the Web advertising nursing jobs in the Gulf states. So, after some research, I contacted a reputable recruiting agency and submitted an application. Within a few weeks I had a telephone interview with the nurse manager of a pediatric surgical unit at a large, prestigious hospital in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Not long afterward I was offered a job.
It's a pretty good deal. The hospital itself is supposed to be a very advanced, highly regarded facility. In fact it prides itself in being the match of any top American hospital for quality of care. It's also gigantic – literally hundreds of beds, quite a jump from Shriners, which has a maximum capacity of only 30 kids! The base salary is respectable by American standards, and that's before overtime (of which, I've been told, there is an ample supply). But that base salary is greatly enhanced by two factors: 1) it's tax-free (I have verified this with the IRS – US citizens resident in foreign countries pay no income tax on earned income up to $82,400), and 2) the hospital provides living accommodations. No taxes, no rent, virtually no financial responsibilities. It's like being Paris Hilton, only without the venereal disease. It's essentially the same as earning 50% more than you would in the States. And since, according to my research, the cost of living in Saudi Arabia is relatively low, it's possible that I could come back from a year in Riyadh having banked some serious scratch. How serious? Well, maybe enough to be in new BMW territory. Pretty tempting.
And Saudi Arabia would certainly provide the exotic foreign experience I'm looking for. In fact, for a Westerner, Saudi Arabia is probably about as exotic as you can get and still be on the planet Earth. Language wouldn't even be an issue, because although Saudis speak Arabic, the hospital conducts all its business in English. They even provide interpreters for the nurses to speak to the patients.
Still, I was ambivalent for a little while. It's a year's commitment, which is a long time. I could miss a lot. For example, one of my friends (the Britain-basher mentioned above, in fact) and his wife will be starting a family soon, so I could miss the birth of their first child. But, as the potential father pointed out, even if they had a baby while I was away, he or she would only be a few months old when I got back – it's not like the little nugget would even know who I was in that time, anyway. There'd still be an entire lifetime of messing with the kid's head for my own amusement. Then I thought about my life one year ago. It really wasn't very different from today. Sure, some minor details have changed. But the fundamentals haven't. I still live in the same place, work at the same job, hang out with he same people. Okay, I drive a different car. But that's about it. So what's a year? It feels long when you're in the middle of it, but when it's over it seems like hardly any time at all.
So in the end I decided to do it. I'm going to Saudi Arabia. There's a lot to do before my departure date, which right now is scheduled for October 31. Turns out moving to a foreign country for a year is sort of a big deal. Who knew? Medical tests, immigration papers, etc., etc. And, of course, setting up a blog with a name that would probably make Peter O'Toole cringe. I'll keep you posted.
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