Allow me to set the scene more clearly. I was just beginning my first day as a volunteer at Manos de Jesus Nursing Home in Cartago. I was one of only two volunteers from CCS working at the time. Manos de Jesus is a rather impressive facility for the elderly, one that would rival and even best many of the nursing homes that we see in the United States. The grounds are complete with ample sleeping quarters, sunny courtyard, fully-stocked kitchen, chapel, clinic, therapy garden, soccer field, chicken coops (of course, with chickens, and an abundance of fresh eggs every morning), and elderly residents. On the surface, Manos de Jesus is a dream for elderly folks who have nowhere else to go - and to a certain extent - it is. The residents are able to lounge in the sun, play games, garden, and tend to the chickens, all with wide smiles on their faces. Two problems, however, become obvious rather quickly. The first is a mathematic complication of the simplest kind: numbers. There are 48 residents that live at Manos de Jesus. On the flip side, there are only a small fraction of staff to care for the vast majority of their daily needs. Manos de Jesus relies on two sources of income to run its operation. The first is monetary aid from the government, which interestingly enough comes from the Costa Rican Lottery. The second is private donations. Unfortunately, the monetary needs of the facility are not met completely by these two forms of fundraising. This, in turn, leads to suboptimal levels of staffing and other essential supplies, as well as a need to develop ways to stretch the almighty buck - or in Costa Rica - colon.
The second problem is significantly more disturbing emotionally. The residents of Manos de Jesus range in age from 77 to 102 years old. Thankfully, this is the crowd that I was primed to work with from the time I was a mere wisp of an idea in the back of my parents minds when they first got married. The men in the facility range most widely in terms of age. The women, however, tend to be much older. In fact, the oldest resident at Manos de Jesus is a lovely lady by the name of Rosa. (Just as an aside, I have decided it would be best to protect the names of the residents. Therefore, this resident's name is not actually Rosa, but everything else about her is completely true.) At first glance, it was not obvious to me why the women tended to be older than the men. I was later informed that in much of Latin American culture, women continue to be "useful" with a multitude of daily chores until much later in life. Therefore, their service (dare I say, forced labor) in the household, spares them the fate of being sent to the nursing home until even later in life. As another aside, I am just as unenthused about this aspect of Latino culture as you are. However, it certainly deserves mentioning. So please don't shoot the messenger.
The residents come from varied backgrounds. Similarly, different reasons lead to their admissions to the nursing home. The one constant is this: they all came to the nursing when this was their only plausible option left. Some were alcoholics who burned bridges with their families and had nowhere else to go except the streets when they exhausted their resources. We could easily assume being in a nursing home with a roof over your head and food to eat everyday is better than being homeless. Others had no other family members by the time they reached their mature elderly age, and so came to the nursing home for living needs and companionship. Yet others have various mental and physical disabilities that were the root of their admission to Manos de Jesus. This is very similar to the experience I had in Peru in which a significant social stigma continues to exist in Costa Rica as it pertains to disabilities. Oftentimes, families do not want to deal with the supposed "embarrassment" that a relative with disabilities would cause. Therefore, they are abandoned in hospitals in times of acute illness. However, when that acute issue resolves, the person's family is no longer anywhere to be found and a permanent trip to Manos de Jesus is in order.
Even though I have dealt with these social stigmas in the past, I have not been able to become desensitized to them. This has both positive and negative aspects. On the one hand, I continue to struggle with my emotions, as the idea of abandoning a family member because they have a disability is completely and utterly incomprehensible to me (as I am sure it is to most of us). There are still certain moments when I have to take a time-out during work to collect my thoughts and refocus on the work I am doing, in order to not get lost in a sense of sadness for the people's lives I am trying to help. On the other hand, I fear that if I do become desensitized to their plight, I would not give them the utmost of care that they truly deserve. I'm sure one day I will strike an appropriate balance with my future patients in the hospital, but until then, the emotional roller coaster will just have to do.
Now that I am done with my detour, back to the circle, with each person just as integral as the next. We were playing a round of hot potato with a blue bouncy ball. The music would begin - Latin dance music, of course - and the ball would be passed in a clockwise direction, just like a planet in orbit. There just wasn't a central star yet. When the music stopped, the person with the ball had to introduce themselves. When the music stopped with the ball in my hand on the tenth (or so) round of play, it was my turn to stand in the middle of the circle and become the sun of our circular solar system. While I was standing, the two elderly people who were sitting directly to my left and right held hands, so as not to break the circle of our communal activity. "Me llamo es Corey. Yo tengo 24 anos. Soy de Estados Unidos y vivo en Nueva York. Soy un estudiante de medicina. Me gusta leer, cocinar, y bailar." I was immediately accosted (not in a bad way) by a crowd of voices, coming from every direction in the circle, "Bailar, bailar. Corey necesite bailar!" I should have known what I was getting into when I freely admitted in my introduction that I liked to dance. And now there was no way out. From somewhere to my left, the Latin dance music began, and Javi, one of the residents, set the mood with short bursts of, "Yop, yop, yop!" and "Wopaah, wopaah!". Next thing I know, I am being held, arm-in-arm, by a kindly woman named Bel, and she takes the lead. For a full song, she twists and turns, overarm and underarm, and moving her hips more than most 20 year olds can, even though she is easily in her 80's. Although I felt as if I had no idea what I was doing, the time flew by, and suddenly the dance was over, with a pure smile on both of our faces. Bel kissed my cheek and quickly said, "Gracias y Bienvenido a Costa Rica." with a perfectly sincere look on her face. The rest of the residents followed in kind, "Bienvenido a Costa Rica!" The cry was so loud and enthusiastic that I am sure it could be heard back home in Brooklyn.
Subsequently, Mick, one of the residents, who is sitting in his wheelchair to my right, takes out a harmonica. Mick reminds me completely of my maternal grandfather in ways that include mannerisms, facial features, personality, amount of English-speaking ability, and even his hands. For some reason, I have memorized my grandfather's hands, even though he is no longer with us, from size and shape, to texture. Mick has those hands. He plays a song for me on his harmonica, a song I do not recognize. However, he plays like a pro, and I find myself clapping my hands to the beat. When he finishes his song, he reaches out his hand to me. I take his hand in mine, and for a split second, I am shaking my grandfather's hand, a hand I have been unable to hold in six years. "Mucho gusto", says Mike, which means, "Good to meet you." And then the tears well up unexpectedly in my eyes. Part of the reason for this was the pleasant reminder of my grandfather, whom I miss greatly and think about daily. The other part was the warm feeling in my core that told me I was immediately welcomed here. They wanted me here. And from my first day of working here, I knew that I could make a difference, that I would have a purpose. There must be a reason why the Big Guy upstairs sent me here and now to Manos de Jesus. This is where I am meant to be at this point of my journey.
Pura Vida.
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