Getting My Health Card

In order to work in the food and beverage industry on the island of St. Thomas, you are required to get what is known as a Health Card. A Health Card is a photo ID that certifies you are healthy enough to prepare or serve food and drinks. And how does one acquire the stamp of approval that is "healthy" in the lovely Virgin Islands? Its easy - there are only two steps: poop in a cup and get your blood pressure taken.

There are no questions about your past health. Nothing to disqualify in the range of hepatitis, hair loss or whooping cough. You can have smallpox, just as long as your blood pressure isn't too high. Even when it is too high, they hand you excuses at the drop of a hat -
"Oh its a little high, are you nervous about passing this test?"
"Oh its a little high, you may need more exercise."
"Oh its a little high, you probably eat foods with salt."
"Oh its a little high. Welp, you pass."

And then - of course - there is the feces sample. I know that whole 2girls1cup thing was popular back in the States years ago, but it seems like the Virgin Islands are a little behind on their trends. The short story is that they test your poop for parasites. The long story is that you collect a feces sample while at home and put it in a vial they provide to you using a spork that is attached to the cap. There are markings on the side that indicate levels of volume, even though they don't tell you how many mL of your feces they need for a proper analysis (How much poo is too much poo?). This vial then goes into a plastic zip-lock style bag with all kinds of 'hazardous material' labels on it. You come to the hospital between 1pm and 3pm, take a number, and then sit in the waiting area with your feces sample amongst others attempting to acquire their Health Card. When your number is called, you hand over your sample and get your blood pressure taken, and if everything pans out you get your picture taken and your Health Card is given to you before you leave.

So there I was, lucky number D7, awaiting the moment when my name was called. I had dropped my sample off the prior week in hopes it would expedite the retrieval of my card. It did not. With ticket in hand, I took a seat in the middle of the fifth row back, surrounded in all directions by local West Indians. Glancing through the crowd I found the one other white guy, who was already staring at me, and we exchanged the traditional head nod. The office wouldn't be open for another half hour, which gave me plenty of time to acquaint myself with my surroundings.

Two rows back, there was a lady on her cell phone with a baby in her arm. This baby was of course crying because it was not being attended to, to which the mother replied repeatedly, "Hush up now chile, I'm intaviewin' for a job!" I found it baffling and yet bold that she would hold a phone interview while in line at the hospital with a crying baby in her arm. I wonder if she got the job.

Cell phones seemed to be the theme of the day. At one point, there were ten phones ringing ten different popular songs at the same time. It was like MTV Hits top ten list was condensed into a seven second spectacle. About fifteen minutes into my wait, a group of four local vagabonds walked in and one guy went to take a number. When the ticket didn't rip the way it should have (everyone else got it to work fine...) this gentleman decided he would "fix" the take-a-number distributor. Wait, no fix isn't the right word... oh yeah that's right he snapped the plastic dispenser in half and the roll of numbered tickets fell onto the floor.

At this point the gentleman, who was clearly drunk (another bold move - getting your Health Card when hammered at 1pm), looked around the room precariously as if to check if anyone had seen him. We had. All of our seats were facing his direction. He flashed a nervous half-smile, and then placed the roll back on top of the broken dispenser and rejoined his group. This is all while the other three were having an argument about why one of them shouldn't be dating the guy she was currently with. They were loud and obscene enough to make the entire waiting room blush. They were dropping f-bombs like nobody's business. They were talking about what the sex was like. And the best part was that they had selected to sit next to the lady with a baby on the phone interview.

My number was finally called and I approached the counter, making sure to give the obligatory head nod to other-white-guy as I walked by. I was assigned a window from the lady at the registration desk, and the very first thing I was asked for was my photo ID. Which was strange, because I had to submit my ID as collateral for the badge I was required to wear as a hospital visitor. This means I had to go all the way back down to the front desk, explain the situation and get a photocopy of my ID, then return to my window to a nurse who was now furious with me for wasting five minutes of her time. She returned the favor, however, because upon my return I saw she was already helping someone else despite her testimonial that she would wait for me.

Paperwork was filled out, payment was made, and lab results for the feces test were retrieved (I passed). My blood pressure was a little high based on the fact that I had eaten Kung Pao Kitten at the Chinese restaurant across the street for lunch. It was not until the picture was taken and the Health Card was printed that I noticed my resemblance to Krusty the Clown.

As I walked out of the hospital, thankful to have a Health Card and that the process was over, I realized that the lab doesn't do DNA tests on the feces sample (if that is even possible). Therefore, if one knows they have parasites, all they have to do is provide someone else's feces and they can still get a Health Card. This renders its existence somewhat worthless. The End.