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  • La Operación
  • Meredith Cornett (bio)

I contemplate the lake this afternoon as it fills with the rains of the daily aguacerro. I mull over my uninspiring dinner options, variations on starch with more starch. Weighing the pros and cons of rice with plantain versus plantain with rice, I look up to see Gabi smiling at me, a welcome distraction.

Buenas, Maria.

Buenas tardes, señora.

She settles on the rough-hewn plank bench of my kitchen. I scramble to provide refreshment, as Gabi always does for me on visits to her rancho. Fortunately, the tree right next to the kitchen has a few ripe oranges within reach. These I slice and squeeze into enamel mugs. The aroma is only an essence, so several dashes of sugar are in order. Having abandoned any attempts at water purification months ago, I pour water straight from the spigot into each mug. After a quick stir of the weak solution with a pocked teaspoon, I hand the chicha to my friend and sit on the bench beside her.

Mira, Maria. She takes the mug. I came to ask you a favor. She falters, lowering her eyes. I’m going to the hospital so they can operate on me. So I have no more babies.

I am astonished. Although contraceptives are available in Panama City, here in the countryside family planning is virtually unknown. In rural areas, tradition dictates producing children in quantity. Large families are still perceived as an economic asset in subsistence farming communities like Tranquilla. Never before have I lived in a nation like Panama, with an official, government-sponsored religion. In this Catholic nation, birth control is discouraged. As a foreigner living in this nation, I decided last year to [End Page 194] avoid the issue of reproductive health. I struggle daily as a global citizen to put aside my concern about the population explosion and behave respectfully in this culture.

I try to think of this moment as simply a chance to be supportive of a friend. For whatever reason, Gabi has decided that a tenth child would be one too many. Her decision is brave, modern, and entirely her own. I cannot bring myself to ask her what first comes to mind: whether her husband knows. Instead I offer, What do you need, then?

Bueno. I go to Santo Tomás, the public hospital, in Panama City. It’s free for me, as a citizen, but patients have to bring their own blood donor. I wondered if you could be my donor, pues.

And if we are not the same blood type?

No importa. The main thing is they need a donor to help some other patient. That way, they always have enough. I reason through this as she continues. My appointment is on Thursday. Puede acompañar me?

Do you think they’ll accept blood from a gringa foreigner?

They say they will. She has obviously been thinking about this for some time, of me in particular, even. I suppose this is not surprising. Gabi knows that I am not plugged into Tranquilla’s circle of gossip. My complicity would make this so much simpler.

Thursday it is. What time do we leave?

At dawn, Gabi’s husband ferries us across the lake. His face is lined and sullen, perhaps with the knowledge of our purpose. On the chiva and bus into the city, Gabi and I pass the time making chitchat and dozing.

We arrive at the central bus station, and Gabi is unsure of the way to Santo Tomás. Although she visited the hospital recently, the tangle of crowded streets and alleys confuses her. We zig this way, zag another, increasingly disoriented as we go. Gabi seems to have left her usual air of confidence in Tranquilla. She clings to me every time we cross the street. Although she is the citizen and I the foreigner, I am more comfortable in this urban setting. Finally, I hail a taxi. We tell the driver that we are headed to Santo Tomás. He gets us there safely and on time, all for the cost of one dollar.

Santo Tomás is a complex of several...

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