Exit One Ovary, Eenter One Doña
Marisella Veiga

Right after scheduling my first surgery here in Arlington, Va., for the last week in January, I booked a flight to Lexington, Ky., for an overdue visit to my brother Luis and his family. I wanted to see his two boys, Daniel, age four and a half, and Michael, about to turn three, just before the operation.

Afterwards wouldn’t have worked. Restrictions on lifting would be in effect for the six-week recovery period. What good would Tía Mari be if she couldn’t lift the boys to hug them or to tackle them? No good at all.

On the return drive to the airport, my brother and I discussed turning 50. He will do so in May. My turn comes in about two and a half years. I recalled that in Puerto Rico, one is considered a senior at that age.

This demarcation was horrifying when I learned about it in my 20s. Now it is a source of delight: I will be recognized as a Doña for my life experiences and the wisdom gleaned from them.

I don’t have children and I don’t lament it. Neither my husband nor his adult children are Latino. My husband has been prepped, but his children will have to be told when Doña-hood arrives.

I imagine them listening politely for a few minutes to what it means. They may find the cultural difference interesting. It’s a topic worth talking about, but living with it is another story. Respecting elders? Consulting them? Learning from their experiences and applying the wisdom in their own lives? Doubtful. Never.

I’ll forgive them over and over. Because of their youth-centered culture, they will probably chalk it up to early senility.

Meanwhile, I look forward to turning 50. I will make plans to enjoy this position of increased respect, even though most non-Latinos will not recognize that it’s mine. I will own it anyway.

The surgery for the removal of endometriosis was more complex than expected. My left ovary was removed as well, and I spent two nights in the hospital’s gynecological ward. My five-year-old niece Andrea was kind enough to visit and brought some blue modeling clay. Immediately, I made two small sculptures — birds’ nests filled to the brim with perfectly rounded eggs. A week later I realized I had completed a tribute to my missing producer of eggs.

My only conscious concern about fertility is that I could still become Mami when Tía Mari has been a better role for me. The other ovary, it turns out, adjusts and continues its work. Among the various pains and aches accompanying the recovery of a gynecological patient, I feel a vacancy on the left side of my body. What was there my entire life is gone: ¡Adios!

On required walks around the ward, I met my peers. They were dressed in similar gowns and walked slowly, carefully through the carpeted hallways. These women are my age or older, Doñas, to be sure, who have undergone surgery on their reproductive organs. We would greet each other and then disappear into our warm rooms.

The nursing staff had plenty of bilingual members, among them a few who speak Spanish and English. One woman came in to adjust a plastic object that was, for a short time, attached to my body. She was efficient and kind. When she left, she wished me the best and called me “Madre.”

It’s not quite the Doña title that I’ve been looking forward to, but it will do.

(Marisella Veiga, of Arlington, Va., is an author, educator and contributed columnist with Hispanic Link News Service.)

© 2005, Hispanic Link News Service
02/27/05
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