Panama's Public Nursing Home

I saw her as soon as I passed through the large front gates of the Asilo Bolivar. Slender and agile, she toted three bags, as if ready to leave on a trip at any moment. She peered out from behind a large tree, shot me a gap-toothed smile, and motioned to me to follow her. I sought a nod of permission from the security guard, with whom I had been chatting while awaiting my friend, Iriela, for this Saturday visit. He waved me in.

The largest public nursing home in Panama City, this institution dates back 125 years. Church and state are seamlessly intertwined here, with the facility government-owned, but staffed by nuns. There is a large two-story women's pavilion and a neighboring men's pavilion, separated by a fence, each housing nearly 100 souls. I have only been inside the women's pavilion, as it is where Iriela feels most comfortable, and I am her guest for these visits.

I followed the old woman, who glanced back to make sure I was coming. I wondered how she had escaped the walled garden surrounding the women's pavilion, as we were still on an outer driveway. Presumably someone knew her whereabouts? She lugged her belongings to a low wall beside a loading dock behind the administration building, where some workers were piling bulk-buy packages of paper towels, toilet paper, and diapers onto a pallet. She perched on the wall and nodded at me. I sat next to her, said good morning, and asked her name. She kissed me hello in the traditional Panamanian manner, and mumbled something, so I said my name in turn. I asked her if she knew about the festival that was about to begin, celebrating the Week of the Older Adult. She mumbled a few phrases companionably and then paused. My turn. I decided to switch from questions to narrative, since I wasn't able to understand her. I told her about my family, our stay in Panama, and my interest in the stories of older Panamanians. She gazed at me and seemed to take it all in. When I stood up once to look up the drive to see if Iriela had arrived, she laid a hand on my forearm gently, as if to urge me to stay. I smiled and sat back down. She smiled and visibly relaxed.

A second resident came up to us, dressed in a brightly flowered dress, sipping a can of soda. She greeted me in a friendly way and joined the conversation. Her speech was only a little easier to understand than my first companion, but I did get that she was excited about the festival, and tired from the heat. When I spoke, I turned back and forth between the two women, to include them both, but Ms. Flowery Dress waved her hand at Ms. Tote Bags and said, "You can't talk to her! She doesn't talk." I said we each “talk” in our own way, to which she laughed merrily. I continued to address them both, wondering who was getting what from this exchange. Ms. Tote Bags eyed her bags nervously, as if worried that Ms. Flowery Dress was about to make off with them.

Iriela arrived into this scene, together with her 14 year old daughter, Camilla, whom I had not met before. I took one look at the lovely girl and knew she was terrified. Together we walked into the gate to the women’s pavilion, trailing Ms. Flowery Dress and Ms. Tote Bags behind us, who came along at our suggestion. I still wasn’t sure whether someone knew they were out here.

Iriela carries a large grocery bag full of little juice boxes and packages of crackers to give to the residents. They chatter excitedly when they see her. Some want to talk, others just reach for the snacks. The women range in age from their late 60s to 90 or so. Some are ambulatory and agile, while others are wheelchair-bound and a few are resting prone on a stretcher.

The building is large and open to the outdoors, and surprisingly cool compared to the sunny garden. Our house traps the midday heat like a little oven, but these grounds have huge, ancient trees that shade the buildings. The entrance to the women’s pavilion opens into a terrace with two rows of chairs facing each other. Half a dozen women are sitting there, talking or just watching a group of young people who are putting up decorations for the festival. The worn linoleum floor is a black and green checkerboard, still clean from one of its several daily moppings. After talking with a resident who is sitting off by herself, I go over and sit beside Camilla, in hopes of setting her at ease. We talk about my learning Spanish and her studying English, and commiserate about the challenges. I ask her if the place seems a little strange and scary to her and she nods, and then smiles. Her mother is such a warm person, and so clearly enjoys chatting with the residents, that before long Camilla relaxes and offers to rub lotion onto a resident’s arthritic hands. Later we walk together toward the dining area and when I stop to talk with a woman I remember from my last visit, she walks on to seek out another resident.

The tiny woman is sitting on a folding chair with her two bandaged ankles propped up on a second chair. She exclaims excitedly “You came back!” and we discuss her ankles and the challenges of immobility. She is very animated, and has the crinkly laugh lines that suggest a good sense of humor. Sure enough. When Iriela approaches, the old woman says, “what are you peddling today?” Iriela says, “Mata-rata for you!” They both laugh delightedly, and then, seeing that I didn’t get the joke, Iriela translates for me. “Mata-rata is rat poison.”