It’s 9:40AM on Christmas Eve here in Hamilton. We are seated in the surprisingly spacious waiting room of the Hillcrest Medical Centre. It’s a relatively small operation boasting some eleven doctors and two grumpy receptionists. The room is far from full so Gwyn is feeding Clark a banana.
Despite the inauspicious locale, all is well for our small brood. But with homeward and Christmas thoughts aplenty, I can’t help but recall the fact that the Savior of the world was born as an undocumented alien far from home. Given the special relationship between Jesus and immigrants, it occurs to me that we are doing something today that only a family of immigrants would do.
We are here today waiting to collect my medical records so that we can process our visa application before the Immigration Office closes at Noon for the New Year.
And we haven’t much time.
Naturally, the receptionist seemed a bit annoyed when I indicated that we would rather wait for our records than “pop in” later to pick them up. The Kiwi way of doing things, and the social good form, is to let things go for another day. “It’ll get done” is the mantra. No rush. But for us niceties aren’t an option. Time is of the essence. A late offer letter from my University, coupled with the need to have my passport renewed, have all conspired against us in retrieving the medical records we initiated for processing with this clinic nearly three months ago.
The receptionist, managing a busy office, wasn’t terribly interested in our story. Her glare was sufficient to communicate her thoughts on our situation. Which is a bit odd in retrospect since we were instructed by her colleague to follow the present course of action (viz., to drop off our records yesterday and collect them today). Good to see communication struggles occur in every relationship – even among colleagues.
But, as I mentioned, our situation today reminds me somewhat of Christ’s birth because the same predicaments that led Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem have led me and Gwyn and Clark to the clinic – inane policies of government they were obliged to follow – no matter how very pregnant Mary was.
In the end, they were as much victims of circumstances as we are today. I suspect they were met with similarly unsympathetic stares when making their pleas for lodging.
“Sorry, not much else I can do,” the receptionist says. And so we wait.
I’ve seen my doctor just now. As luck would have it, inexplicably, he never bothered to complete the forms of my medical exam. Different system here I guess. “Thought you didn’t need it completed.” And then the dreaded words, “Can’t possibly get it done before Noon.”
To be fair, his workload is swamped today, but after a bit of cajoling, I manage to secure a commitment to do what he can in light of our timeframe. “No Doctor, we don’t mind the wait.” The Doc means well, but it’s clear he’d rather not process many more of these immigration exams, doubtless preferring his usual lot of patients.
“Can’t promise anything. But I’ll try to get it done before lunch.” He adds.
It’s strange to be in such a position of utter dependence upon the competence (and at this point sheer will) of others. I’m quite nearly inclined to say that we are dependent upon the kindness of others, but I’m not sure that competence qualifies as a kindness for medical professionals. Back home, we might call this simply a duty of care.
The relation of this to Christmas is that Mary and Joseph were in a similar fix – not that we are in any other way comparable to the parents of the Christ. Even so, I can understand, now, the pressure they must have felt. The urgent need to find someone, anyone, willing to accommodate them. And the crushing feeling of being turned away.
Clark has grown fussy so Gwyn is taking him for a walk. The receptionist is taking morning tea back to the doctors. Patients and records be damned. In New Zealand, nothing thwarts morning tea.We have only an hour and a half now to make the trek downtown to the Immigration Office. Unlike “The Hunger Games,” the odds do not seem to be in our favor.
I suppose things could be worse. We could be awaiting news of a serious illness or saying good-bye to a loved one. Fortunately, we’re all healthy if not a bit sleep deprived. Still, it’s time to begin preparing for a less than ideal outcome.
I like to think of how Mary reached a point of meditation and zen about her own situation which was certainly more dire than ours.
Mary came from limited means. Surely rearing a son would be a challenge under any circumstance for her. This was doubtless made even more complicated given her engagement to Joseph, what with carrying a child that was not his and all. I suppose this might be a bit chauvinistic, but no matter how tremendous the blessing, a man still likes to know that it’s his child in his wife’s belly.
This makes her response to the Angel’s news of her pregnancy all the more striking. Then again, as we are learning today, what can you do when events are out of your control but ponder them? (Luke 2.19).
Talk about snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. Only moments ago the Doctor came out, tight-lipped, wordlessly handing me a large envelope with the completed paperwork for my visa application. I no more had time to thank him than he turned away, back to the grind. His bedside manner leaves something to be desired. But it’s hard to quibble with a guy who delivers.
I don’t know that there’s a Christmas correlation for this outcome. Seems a bit different than having to birth a child in a manger. Given the two, we’re faring much better today. For my part, I’m just relieved things seem to have turned out alright. Perhaps that’s how Mary and Joseph felt, just thankful for a bit of shelter and some privacy.
I called a cab for Gwyn to drive her to the Immigration Office. By God, this just might work. As if on cue, the cab arrived in a matter of minutes. I’m inordinately thankful as I watch her pull away from the curb. Clark’s tiny hand does a small wave. We’ve been teaching him that, which makes me proud. Normally we’d all take the bus. But as the muse says, “ain’t nobody got time for that.”
Gwyn called just now. Our paperwork was delivered with 50 minutes to spare.
It’s a small one. But I’ll count it a Christmas miracle all the same.
To celebrate our good fortune, we had a Christmas Eve lunch at the lone Mexican taqueria in Hamilton, New Zealand. It’s conveniently located in the food court at the Centre Place Mall.
I had a burrito and a Diet Coke. The salsa was mild. The meat was shredded, and rather good.