>mom-mode post #4- on how I fainted on my out

August 24, 2009 § 2 Comments


Most of you know that I am not an american citizen. I’ve been a permanent resident for some 3 years now and just recently got approved for my 10-year card. Long story short, my card was misspelled, so I went to the Immigration Services in D.C. this past Friday.

The minute one walks in that building, one most forget that one lives in a developed nation. It is as if a broom of bureaucracy and red tape sweeps the room and suddenly, everything becomes complicated. It doesn’t matter how simple your situation is: You got approved for a green card, of course you sent in all of your documents correctly spelled, they make a mistake, they correct the mistak… No wait, they don’t. They make you suffer through a long line. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, but my 13-week- pregnant body didn’t seem to take this high-tense-long-line too well. I finally reach the counter, I proceed to explain my situation. The ever friendly staff “smiles” and tells me I don’t have an appointment with them today. Funny, because the computer told me I did. I convince her to at least hear my situation. She caves in a little. She tells me there is nothing she can do for me today. In fact, she tells me that the people I talked to on the phone ( their people, mind you) gave me the wrong information. In her own words: “someone short-changed you”. Thanks, I feel much better now. She does tell me my name IS spelled correctly in the system. Quick question: If my name is spelled correctly in the system, WHY IN THE WORLD DID YOU SEND ME A CARD THAT IS NOT? She doesn’t know the answer to that. I begin to see dark spots. My husband and I start walking out the door. I can barely move. I think I’m fainting. I’m pretty sure I’m fainting.

Normally this wouldn’t scare me, I’ve fainted before. I’m hypoglycemic. But this time, I had just eaten a huge quiche for breakfast. This wasn’t my typical fainting. I panic. My poor husband asks me if I’m okay. I can’t see anything, I sit on the ledge outside the door. All I can say is “call 911”. The security guards are actually the friendliest people working in that wretched place. They tell my husband what address to give the ambulance people, they get me in an air-conditioned room, a comfy chair and a bottle of water. I wish their other workers were this nice and sympathetic. I quickly regain consciousness. The paramedics get there and insist on getting me out of there in a stretcher, even though I can walk normally. They check me out, make sure everything is okay with me. Final verdict: locked knees and a high stress environment caused it. And then the paramedic says: “whatever you do today, do not go back in that building.” Trust me sir, I won’t.

Mad that my green card is still misspelled, happy to be alive, blessed that my baby is okay.


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