Visa applications are not for wimps.
Yesterday, the FedEx man drove away. With our visa applications. With our passports (yep–the real things–ugh). With our life histories. With our medical histories. With our Federal Bureau of Investigation background checks. With over an inch thick envelope of Dan and Lisa stuff. I took photos. He might not have understood why.
He seemed so calm about it. He fed each of our dogs a potato chip, then just drove away.
The waiting game is on.
Our background checks are spotless. We can prove that we have been married–and living together–for years despite the utility bills being only in my name. Our medical histories are pristine–no prescriptions, no major (or minor) illnesses, no hospitalizations. The worst they can say is that I have one kidney. Wait! Could we be rejected for my solo kidney? Can I ask for it back? What sort of message would that send to the world anyway?Don’t donate a kidney or you can’t come to our country? Surely not. Did you ever notice that if you misspell surely, you become surly?
I may become surly if NZ is only a country for dual kidney folks. If you have a pair, you have a spare.
The New Zealand work visa office says “don’t call us for 20 days”–yep, I may become an impatient-surly-one-kidneyed-American-ex-pat-to-be-or-not-to-be. Maybe they’ll read this blog and decide against us.
And then there is the audiology application.
As I type, Dan is in the next room, struggling over the endless questions to work as an audiologist in New Zealand. It is a struggle. They want his passport info that FedEx just drove away with. They want his original diplomas. They want answers to a jillion questions. They want his first born child. They want more money. They want New Zealand dollars–not Ben Franklins. That requires a special signature seal. That seal requires a special signature seal banker person. That special signature seal banker person is out of the office today. So sorry…come again another day.
At least I don’t have to take another bar exam. That might be the deal breaker. I still have nightmares about the bar exam. In one, I had to write the entire exam on a pillow case, using a crayon, in a crowded restaurant. My crayon kept breaking. I was running out of time. The waiter kept interrupting me. The restaurant was noisy. Tic-toc-tic-toc. I will never finish in time. I am panicking.
Yes, this really was one of my nightmares–I can’t make that stuff up, although apparently my brain can. Unless it happened.
The visa applications feel sort of like that dream. No, they feel a lot like that dream. Tic-toc-tic-toc.
Twenty days. One (almost) down, nineteen to go. Maybe.