Infertility in another culture

Char Siemens

Jon was at home packing. When I got back from the doctor's, we would head off on a six-week hiking and biking trip to the United States. As I sat in the office waiting for my name to be called, I pondered what the next few months would hold. We had just signed up for a Mennonite Central Committee term in Nicaragua, and I had thought I would get the mandatory MCC check-up out of the way. It would be one less thing to worry about once we came back from our vacation. I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I barely heard the nurse call my name.

We chatted away as the examination proceeded. Suddenly the doctor looked concerned; my internal examination elicited distress. That afternoon, we waited at a specialist's office instead of starting on our vacation. During the examination, the specialist casually handed me kleenexes as he explained the possibilities. I was scheduled for surgery a week later. I was overwhelmed; endometriosis was a word I had never encountered before, and now I was praying that I had this dreaded disease instead of the alternative: cancer.

The week before surgery, I did extensive reading about endometriosis. Infertility had never crossed my mind; I was physically active and strong. The removal of two massive cysts, caused by endometrial cells, caused both physical and emotional pain. Surgery confirmed my suspicions that I might not be able to conceive.

I was devastated. My body had let me down, even after I had taken such good care of it. All the years of using birth control seemed like a cruel joke. Life wasn't fair! I would be a good mother!

Two months after surgery, we left for Nicaragua. I was still grieving as my tongue struggled with Spanish verb conjugation at language school. In our small village, people were surprised that a 30-year-old woman didn't have a troop of children following her. There were no silent whispers among church members wondering whether we did'nt have children by choice or by circumstance. They openly questioned why we didn't have children.

Initially, I was horrified at their questions. Didn't these people know this was a private matter? But I soon began to see it as a form of healing. We sat on back patios and discussed raging unemployment in our community, the best way to cook rice and beans, and the gringa who was unable to conceive. It was not a cause for shame; it was the reality of my life.

I looked around me and saw the realities of others' lives. One neighbour didn't always have enough food for her children, and, as a result, their growth was stunted. Another had just lost his job and struggled to make ends meet. The local school principal longed for paper and pencils so the children could copy their lessons.

I desperately wanted children; as a woman, I felt I had a right to conceive. My friends also had rights: the right to obtain work, the right to a decent education and the right to a dignified life. None of those rights were completely realized. Our North American culture, especially our media, likes us to believe that all our needs and rights will be actualized and that we control our destinies and our fate. My neighbour taught me that God is in control and we are given grace to deal with the realities of our lives, even if they are not of our choosing.

Today I am the mother of two beautiful boys. Daniel joined our family while we were living in Teustep, Nicaragua, and last summer Jon, Daniel and I spent a month in Nicaagua finalizing adoption proceedings for Carlos. Before we left on our MCC assignment, we had clearly stated that we wanted to start a family during our term. Our plans were changed as to how that was to happen, but life does not always come in the packages we design. We are deeply grateful for the gift of our children. Watching our boys grow fills us with wonder and thankfulness.

My desire to conceive has not left me; I don't think it ever will. Some weeks it seems like every woman I meet is pregnant. I realize there will be occasional tearful moments during child dedications or when I'm holding a newborn. These celebrations in others' lives reinforce the disappointment in mine.

The reality of my life is that I will never physically give birth to a child. However, emotionally and spiritually we have given life to our children, and they to us. Because I dealt with the issues in another culture, infertility conjures up memories of friends, who unknowingly made me face unresolved physical and spiritual issues in my life. I am thankful for their honesty and friendship duing a difficult period.

Charlotte Siemens and her family, Jon Nofziger, Daniel and Carlos, reside on a farm in St. Adolphe, Man. Charlotte teaches junior high at Westgate Mennonite Collegiate. This article is reprinted, with permission, from the November-December issue of MCC Women's Concerns Report.

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