Panama is the kind of place where you can back up on the freeway. I should know, because I did it. And I wasn’t the only one. Here, if you miss your exit, shift into reverse and hope for the best!
Panama is the kind of place where you can show your bare midriff, no matter your age. No matter your size! And no matter your taste in revealing clothes. Sequins are very big here. Who needs a holiday or party? Every day is a good day to show some sparkle . . . and a generous gut, too!
Panama is the kind of place where a waitress might answer her cell phone . . . while she’s serving your table. Gossip is like restaurant food—you got to get it while it’s hot!
Panama is the kind of place where a driver can hold his infant child in one arm, and the steering wheel of his Toyota in the other. Where bikers seem to believe their caps afford the same protection as a helmet. And where the rare jogger might be wearing a knit stocking cap and full sweats . . . in 85 degree weather.
Panama is the kind of place where bright yellow jungle flowers practically explode from the limbs of jade green trees, while piles of garbage fester nearby. The jarring contrast between natural beauty and manmade ugliness makes your head spin. My environmentalist daughter sees education opportunities in Panama. I see . . . well even though I’m an optimist, this is Panama, so I don’t know.
I’ve heard that Panama is one of the top five places in the world to retire. That’s true if you’re measuring weather and cost of living. Panama is a wonderful place, with exuberant, friendly people. At the same time Panamanians see the world differently from most Americans. Certain basic values now embraced in the U.S. (like safety precautions and picking up your own garbage) sometime seem in short supply here.
But in February, when life is gray back home, I can accept the difference much more easily.
Monday, February 28, 2011
I Touched A Dead Body Yesterday
It didn’t scare me, or even freak me out. I was surprised. I touched the body while my wife and two men preparing her aunt’s body (who we knew as Na) for a funeral that was taking place the next day. They were struggling with her dress. The slip was hard enough to put on, but now the dress, with its zippers and lace, it required three sets of hands to lift the body and keep Na’s head in place. I wasn’t going to just stand by—I had visions of the body slipping off the table, bursting open and embalming fluids splashing on my legs. Better I help and avert a potential disaster!
The place where the body was being prepared for the funeral was described to us as a “private morgue.” We had visited the public morgue earlier that day and had identified the body for the death certificate. The sight of Na’s body wrapped in a sheet, with cotton in her mouth and nose, was almost too much to bear. I was not looking forward to a second encounter with Na’s body.
To find the private morgue, we were told to look for the large Edwin Hardware sign off the side of the highway. “You can’t miss it,” I was told. Who hasn’t heard that before?
But I saw the Fereteria Edwin sign and the rutted, dirt driveway that led to what appeared to be an open garage where cars were being repaired. A forlorn dog, skinny with sagging tetes watched us walk warily up to the building. The garage doors were open and we walked right in. Inside we saw the coffin we had selected earlier that day, and Na’s body lying on a metal table. The room was clean enough, but lacked the sterile, medical atmosphere I expected. Perhaps that’s why I wasn’t nervous. Na’s body was being readied for her last public appearance in a garage! Fortunately she looked much better than she did at the public morgue. The cotton had been pulled out, her face was less puffy, and some makeup had already been applied.
The body itself was soft to the touch, but room temperature. There was no life in that skin. The faint aroma of Na’s perfume was evident, but her spirit had departed. I wasn’t scared, repulsed or nervous. We had a limited amount of time to make sure she was presentable. So my wife fixed the makeup, changed the earrings, combed her hair, and arranged her clothing and rosary beads. This was the best we could do.
The next day, 30 minutes before Na’s funeral, a hearse arrived at the church. It was not exactly a hearse, but a white minivan that transported the coffin. We were asked to find men to carry the coffin up the stairs into the sanctuary. For this funeral, the pall bearers really bore a burden, not symbolically accompanied the casket. So huffing and puffing, six of us carefully carried the coffin with Na inside up two flights of stairs. Once in the sanctuary, mourners crowded around the coffin to see Na one more time. My wife was grateful she spent the time carefully arranging the body the day before—fixing the makeup, choosing the right clothes and jewelry—because at this funeral people wanted to see the deceased—a closed casket simply would not do.
My wife said she wished she had one last opportunity to hug her Na before she passed. While they talked on the telephone almost daily, she hadn’t felt her warm embrace, smelled her perfume or seen the vibrant sparkle in her eyes in almost a year. While the corpse looked like Na, it was not her. You can’t feel love from a corpse.
My wife and I both touched a dead body yesterday. Fortunately, a life of warm memories is what we’ll remember.
The place where the body was being prepared for the funeral was described to us as a “private morgue.” We had visited the public morgue earlier that day and had identified the body for the death certificate. The sight of Na’s body wrapped in a sheet, with cotton in her mouth and nose, was almost too much to bear. I was not looking forward to a second encounter with Na’s body.
To find the private morgue, we were told to look for the large Edwin Hardware sign off the side of the highway. “You can’t miss it,” I was told. Who hasn’t heard that before?
But I saw the Fereteria Edwin sign and the rutted, dirt driveway that led to what appeared to be an open garage where cars were being repaired. A forlorn dog, skinny with sagging tetes watched us walk warily up to the building. The garage doors were open and we walked right in. Inside we saw the coffin we had selected earlier that day, and Na’s body lying on a metal table. The room was clean enough, but lacked the sterile, medical atmosphere I expected. Perhaps that’s why I wasn’t nervous. Na’s body was being readied for her last public appearance in a garage! Fortunately she looked much better than she did at the public morgue. The cotton had been pulled out, her face was less puffy, and some makeup had already been applied.
The body itself was soft to the touch, but room temperature. There was no life in that skin. The faint aroma of Na’s perfume was evident, but her spirit had departed. I wasn’t scared, repulsed or nervous. We had a limited amount of time to make sure she was presentable. So my wife fixed the makeup, changed the earrings, combed her hair, and arranged her clothing and rosary beads. This was the best we could do.
The next day, 30 minutes before Na’s funeral, a hearse arrived at the church. It was not exactly a hearse, but a white minivan that transported the coffin. We were asked to find men to carry the coffin up the stairs into the sanctuary. For this funeral, the pall bearers really bore a burden, not symbolically accompanied the casket. So huffing and puffing, six of us carefully carried the coffin with Na inside up two flights of stairs. Once in the sanctuary, mourners crowded around the coffin to see Na one more time. My wife was grateful she spent the time carefully arranging the body the day before—fixing the makeup, choosing the right clothes and jewelry—because at this funeral people wanted to see the deceased—a closed casket simply would not do.
My wife said she wished she had one last opportunity to hug her Na before she passed. While they talked on the telephone almost daily, she hadn’t felt her warm embrace, smelled her perfume or seen the vibrant sparkle in her eyes in almost a year. While the corpse looked like Na, it was not her. You can’t feel love from a corpse.
My wife and I both touched a dead body yesterday. Fortunately, a life of warm memories is what we’ll remember.
Friday, February 4, 2011
I'll Spare You the Details
President Lyndon Johnson famously showed off his gall bladder surgery scars to reporters in the mid 1960s when I was a small child. The press had a field day. Such a vulgar man. How could the president, the most powerful man in the world, lift his dress shirt, and show reporters his ample mid section. Gross.
Gross, for sure, but I understand the impulse.
Maybe I too am vulgar and gross by nature. Or maybe there's something else going on when the president lifts his shirt and shows off his scars.
Johnson later said he wanted the country to know that he was fine. People worry about the health of the president--his well being impacts the stock market, the news, daily watercooler chat. The former president believed showing the world his healed scars was an act of reassurance--instead it became a big joke.
In the week since my own hernia repair surgery, I've had to repress the urge to ask everyone I see, "Do you want to see my scars?" What's going on in my head? I haven't popped a vicodin since Monday so I can't say it's the drugs talking.
For me, showing my scars justifies my current, albeit strange behavior. All week long I've done nothing but sit around, read, watch TV and eat. I even started playing video games, and am especially enjoying Bejeweled. No work, no exercise, no projects, nothing. How to explain this out-of-character behavior? I just had surgery for goodness sake! How long will that excuse work?
I am surprised that my body really seems to need this down time. I expected that two days after the surgery I would feel like doing my normal activities--all those restrictions were for softer people. Yet, turns out the man of steel has feet of clay after all. I'm kind of shocked. Makes me want to show off those scars even more!
It's amazing the physical changes I've endured this week. From swimming 4,000 yard workouts, running twice weekly 10ks, and doing reverse dips off a weight bench, now I strain to stand and I'm not allowed to lift more than 15 pounds. Earlier this week my walk resembled Mr. Tudball from the old Carol Burnett show. One week I'm physically fit, the next I'm a shuffling invalid. "Look at the scars, they explain it all," I think to myself.
I'm not used to physical limitations. Yet, in this my fiftieth year of life, physical limitations are becoming increasingly familiar. My eyesight is failing. And my hearing? Forget about that sense, too!. Is a walker all that far away?
Fortunately, some of the limitations I'm experiencing are temporary. I am on the road to recovery, which is reassuring. In fact, I should be better than ever because my surgery fixed a congential defect. However, I can't help but feel that these aches and pains, the trips to the hospital, conferring with doctors, will become ever more common, ever more familiar as the years roll forward.
Thank God I'm feeling mostly fine. My mind is as sharp as ever. I'm not too bad to look at even if the hair is more sparse--and increasingly gray. My wife still loves me and my children still talk to me. My mind still creates new ideas. And, if pulling all nighters seems impossible, there still seems sufficient strength in this body to get most jobs done.
This week I learned, however, not to take my abilities for granted. They sometimes need a rest--and may or may not come back once they're gone. My prayer is that as life becomes more challenging, that I have the wisdom to deal with these challenges, and the confidence to know that less is much more than nothing.
Gross, for sure, but I understand the impulse.
Maybe I too am vulgar and gross by nature. Or maybe there's something else going on when the president lifts his shirt and shows off his scars.
Johnson later said he wanted the country to know that he was fine. People worry about the health of the president--his well being impacts the stock market, the news, daily watercooler chat. The former president believed showing the world his healed scars was an act of reassurance--instead it became a big joke.
In the week since my own hernia repair surgery, I've had to repress the urge to ask everyone I see, "Do you want to see my scars?" What's going on in my head? I haven't popped a vicodin since Monday so I can't say it's the drugs talking.
For me, showing my scars justifies my current, albeit strange behavior. All week long I've done nothing but sit around, read, watch TV and eat. I even started playing video games, and am especially enjoying Bejeweled. No work, no exercise, no projects, nothing. How to explain this out-of-character behavior? I just had surgery for goodness sake! How long will that excuse work?
I am surprised that my body really seems to need this down time. I expected that two days after the surgery I would feel like doing my normal activities--all those restrictions were for softer people. Yet, turns out the man of steel has feet of clay after all. I'm kind of shocked. Makes me want to show off those scars even more!
It's amazing the physical changes I've endured this week. From swimming 4,000 yard workouts, running twice weekly 10ks, and doing reverse dips off a weight bench, now I strain to stand and I'm not allowed to lift more than 15 pounds. Earlier this week my walk resembled Mr. Tudball from the old Carol Burnett show. One week I'm physically fit, the next I'm a shuffling invalid. "Look at the scars, they explain it all," I think to myself.
I'm not used to physical limitations. Yet, in this my fiftieth year of life, physical limitations are becoming increasingly familiar. My eyesight is failing. And my hearing? Forget about that sense, too!. Is a walker all that far away?
Fortunately, some of the limitations I'm experiencing are temporary. I am on the road to recovery, which is reassuring. In fact, I should be better than ever because my surgery fixed a congential defect. However, I can't help but feel that these aches and pains, the trips to the hospital, conferring with doctors, will become ever more common, ever more familiar as the years roll forward.
Thank God I'm feeling mostly fine. My mind is as sharp as ever. I'm not too bad to look at even if the hair is more sparse--and increasingly gray. My wife still loves me and my children still talk to me. My mind still creates new ideas. And, if pulling all nighters seems impossible, there still seems sufficient strength in this body to get most jobs done.
This week I learned, however, not to take my abilities for granted. They sometimes need a rest--and may or may not come back once they're gone. My prayer is that as life becomes more challenging, that I have the wisdom to deal with these challenges, and the confidence to know that less is much more than nothing.
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