No Kidding in NZ

I'm infertile, not stupid

2012-02-23T12:05:00.001+13:00

I once had a close friend tell me how to take a pregnancytest. This is a woman who had noproblems getting pregnant, had two children easily, and probably only took twopregnancy tests in her life! She didthis after I’d been trying for years, and lost my first pregnancy, and was busycharting my cycle, taking my temperature, etc, and far more in tune with mybody than she was or ever had been with hers. She had obviously never considered what these struggles of mine meant,what I went through every month, that I might anxiously take pregnancy tests, hoping I'm pregnant, worried about another ectopic pregnancy.

Assuming the infertile know nothing about the conceptionprocess, or indeed pregnancy, is so wrong. I would never have lectured my friend on healthy and unhealthy foods. She's had a life-long issue with weight, and belonged to Weight Watcher's many times. She knowsexactly which foods she should and shouldn't eat. And she knows how to step on a scale. Just like I knew exactly what to do to get pregnant - and how to pee on a stick.

Those of us who have been through infertility know enormousamounts about the conception process, and many of us know all about the earlyweeks of pregnancy, and many more of us (whether we’ve got there or not,whether we’ve experienced it or not) know a lot more about being pregnant (andsadly what can go wrong) than women who have been pregnant themselves. I know that – for various reasons – I do.

On a brighter note, I helped a friend/workmate – not infertile, but getting worried aftersix months of trying – to get pregnant by informing her she needed to have sexbefore ovulation not after. I takecredit for creating her sons.

Have you ever been treated as if you’re stupid just because you're infertile?

Bad Parenting II

2012-02-16T16:21:00.001+13:00

(Don't forget to read the preceding post, Bad Parenting)

I know. Sounds like aterrible movie doesn’t it? Bad ParentingII, straight to DVD!

But after writing my previous post, I wanted to add some things, as I think I missed some of the point of Lisa’s feelings about badparenting, and the extreme emotion she still feels from time to time. I used to feel that anger; anger aboutterrible parents, and confusion about why they should get to have children andI don’t?

Every time I would hear of a child taken into care, orworse, a child hospitalised or killed through terrible parenting (sadly all too frequent an occurrence), not justignorant or negligent but often cruel parenting, and my heart would just about explode fromthe emotion. So often I would think “I’lltake that child” – knowing that I would be a better parent than the ones inflicted on thechild by birth, knowing that I could (as much as anyone) keep that child safer thanthey were with their biological parents. And that horrible question “Why? What did I do to deserve this?” would rearits ugly head again.

But I don’t feel that now. I believe in the randomness of the world. This doesn’t mean I agree with it. It’s just the way the world works. It isn’t fair. And let’s face it, in the grand scheme ofthings, being a girl born in New Zealand in the latter part of the 20^thcentury to parents with open and curious minds is about as lucky as you canget. I’ve had my fair share of good luckfrom the universe.

And so when I see this randomness at work I don’t feel as angry, as aggrieved, as I used to. Yes, I feel sad that a childhas to suffer. Yes, I feel angry that achild has to suffer. Yes, I abhor thebehaviour of so many selfish or simply stupid parents who ruin/destroy/end the lives of their children. And even on a lesser scale, yes, I getfrustrated at idiot parents raising a generation of adults who feel entitled,who can’t spell and think grammar is the old lady who buys them sweets, whothink etiquette and manners are old-fashioned, and that being famous is themost important thing in the world. (OMGI sound old!)

But I don’t feel that strong emotion anymore, the need toscream against the utter injustice of it all, that feeling that I was being judgedand found wanting and that that was the reason why I don’t have children. No, in fact, seeing idiot parents justconfirms to me that in fact the opposite was true. I wasn’t judged and found wanting, anymorethan they were judged and found worthy. It doesn’t work like that. Everythinghappens for a reason? Don’t ever tell methat! The world is random and unfair. I’ve learned to live with that.

Apologies - I know this is repetitive, and I've said some of it before. But I felt like saying it again, so I did!

Bad parenting

2012-02-16T15:44:00.000+13:00

Lisa on Life Without Baby got me thinking, as she rantedabout “bad parents” and their out-of-control offspring.

I understand her feelings. From time to time I will also rant wildly about what I perceive to bebad parenting. I’m trying to be balanced addingthe “what-I-perceive-to-be” qualifier, though I don’t actually think I need it– and I’m confident that in most cases most people would agree with me.

I think part of this is that fear that, as women withoutchildren, we’re not allowed to have a view on how others should parent. I’ve posted about this in the past. But I think we are allowed to have aview. I rant at theradio/TV/internet/newspaper about other things I have views on, whether or notI have direct experience on which to base my views, so I don’t see why I can’trant about parenthood.

Also, I have a dear friend who gives me permission. She has two children, and now a grandchildwith another on the way (and argh she’s younger than me!), so in some ways whenshe validates my views, I feel I have permission to express them. And, let’s face it, no-one can judge me on myability or inability to parent by the behaviour of my non-existentoffspring. So perhaps it is easier forme to judge. I used to feel guilty aboutthat. Now I don’t. In fact, I feel quite free to comment (though only tolike-minded people - I'm still polite), or at least to think, or to rant in the safety of my ownhome!

I’m going to give you all the chance to feel free to rant,to judge, to comment on bad parenting. As you know, I’ve just spent a week in Thailand. One night I turned up at the pool at mysister’s hotel for happy hour. (Sex on theBeach there was great!) My sister andher two friends were talking about the shock of the afternoon! A small boy had stood at the side of thepool, and peed into it. His motherwatched him, and shrugged. All theguests were rendered speechless, and so nothing was said. They were aghast at this terrible parenting(a toilet was conveniently placed just a few metres away, as were many plantsin pots that could have done in the last resort!). They (all of them parents) felt free tojudge. So did I. After all, you don’t need to have hadchildren to know that that behaviour is wrong. And those who have had children certainly don’t think it is right.

Baking in the sun

2012-02-07T22:06:00.002+13:00

Just a quick note. I've blogged in A Separate Life about why I'm not posting this week. I'm feeling good so far, but wondering if seeing my sister watch her daughter get married on Friday will bring unexpected emotions. Not that I'm tempting fate - more an intellectual curiosity. And in the meantime, I'm enjoying being back in Thailand. Now, for another frozen mango daiquiri ...

"She has no children. She has nothing."

2012-01-30T17:46:00.001+13:00

"She has no children. She has nothing." So said aso-called friend of BeefPrincess. (I’ve stolen the title ofthis blog post from Nicole, whowas also moved to write). We've certainly been exposed to the subliminal messages of society that encourage this school of thought. We'veprobably all heard family or friends say something like this over theyears. Maybe it was before we tried toconceive, before we knew that we might end up living life withoutchildren. But we would have heard it,and it would have sunk in. Maybe some ofus even said something like that. I'mpretty sure I wouldn't have, as it took me a while to decide I actually wantedchildren in the first place, and I hated the pigeon-holing of a woman’s lot itimplied. But I could understand ifothers did – after all, this is the pervasive message of society today.

To hear something like this - that without children you havenothing - can be incredibly hurtful. Why? When we know it is nottrue? When we know – and I’m sure eventhe woman who made this statement knows – that it is not true. Why? When we know that we are so much more than whether or not we havechildren?

The reason why I think it hurts us so much is that we've probably allsaid it to ourselves at some stage. Inthose dark days when you realise you may not be able to have children, or inthose dark days after loss or illness, you tell yourself dreadful things, imaginethat other people are thinking the most awful things about you. (Well, I did at least.) We've focused for so long - for some of us forour entire adult lives, for others, a very short but intense period ofinfertility and loss - on having children, on the importance of children, offamily, of taking our place in the bosom of the community, of being accepted, together,normal. And so when we feel deprived,locked out, we have genuinely felt as if we had nothing. We felt as if we had no future. I know that we felt as if our husbands andpartners would be better off without us, that we were failures as women, thatwe had no purpose in life, that we would never be happy. Some will have wondered what the point is of continuing to live. Some people reading this might still feelthis way, still stuck in those dark days. And so, when we hear someone say this, say that we have nothing, we slipback to that moment, and believe it all over again, even if just for a splitsecond.

Feeling hurt, feeling ostracised from a society thatcontinually emphasises a lifestyle that we can’t have is one thing. But what explains the statement itself?

If you ask me, the statement “without children you havenothing” says more about the person saying it than it does about us. Why the need to put someone down likethat? To sneer that they have nothing? It was supposed to be a barb, to be unkindabout a person who had already hurt the speaker. But why she felt it was okay to use thatparticular barb (least of all to Beef Princess) is what astounds me. It would be like criticising someone for the skincolour, for being left-(or right) handed, for having blue eyes or a highvoice, for being poor, or for having a low (or in some circles a high IQ).

But the majority rules, and people who “have no kids” seemto invite judgement, simply for going against the norm. Just like on the school playground, difference invites judgement in the adult world too (perhaps even more so). But I wonder too, is part of the motivation for this judgement perhaps the desperateneed to feel that they themselves have more than they actually feel they do? You know, the happiness is relative theory. (If you have more than those you compareyourself to, then you will be a happy person. If you have less, you will be unhappy.) Is that why sleep-deprived, freedom-constrainedmothers feel the need to put others in their place, in turn putting their roleas mothers on a pedestal? That allowingthemselves to feel superior makes them feel happier? Is it perhaps that they feel so insecure, soconflicted about their role as mothers, that there is a constant need to reaffirm howwonderful their life is, and how much better it is than that of those of us without children? (After all, perhaps that is why I feel very happy about my own life; because I can do things that those with children can't).

The message from society these days is that having children is everything. There is no doubt that this is what themajority of our community either believes, or professes to believe, or wants usall to believe. I don't think it is a simple case that this is what everyone believes. Humanbeings are notoriously bad at being able to analyse their own motivations. I think this is a case in point.

Whatever the motivations of both the statement, and ourreactions to it, we all know that it is not true. Children are admittedly a wonderful part oflife, but they are not the only thing in life. We know that. Relationships - with family, friends, colleagues, and our partners -sustain us and nurture us. Work sustainsus, helping others sustains us, an open mind, intellectual challenges andexplorations, our health, our hobbies, our pets, and even a good bottle of wine or a crisp apple – they all sustain us, andhelp us live a happy life. Myfather-in-law had four children, decent health, and was very well-provided forwhen he retired. But when he retired,when he lost his job, he thought he had nothing. He is an intelligent, logical man. But his attitude defied logic. He lacked the insight, the emotionalintellect, to examine his emotions, his beliefs, and his attitudes, and holdthem up to the light. Consequently, hehas been miserable for over 20 years, when he could have lived a happy, amazing life. I thinkthat people who say things like “without children you have nothing” are equallylacking in insight, emotional intellect, understanding, and perhaps most importantly,compassion.

And I pity them.

Being a daughter-in-law

2012-01-23T18:09:00.000+13:00

I’m a good daughter-in-law. I visit the parents-in-law regularly. I push my husband (when he needs it, which isn’t often) to interact withthem, or think of solutions to their problems. I try to figure out how to make their lives easier. I smile and nod and listen to their stories. Yes, I moan and complain here and to my friends that my husband and Iare stuck looking after them, and that my husband doesn’t feel he can leave thecountry because then there’d be no-one to take care of them. (All their other children live overseas andshow no guilt about it, and no intentions of returning, or even of visitingregularly.) And actually, I'm quite proud that my husband feels that way, even if I wish he didn't. But I have never let myparents-in-law know how I feel, and I never will. That just wouldn’t be fair. They are both in their 80s, and things aregetting worse not better. They need tofeel secure, at least, in our presence when their future is increasingly insecure.

My mother-in-law is almost 89. She’s been very lucky with her health, bothphysical and mental. But she’s old, andshe's never been very sensitive (even though she thinks she is), and age doesn't help that. So I can’t reallyallow myself to get angry with her, and I certainly know I can’t begin toeducate her or change her views. As muchas I want to sometimes. As much as shemakes me want to scream sometimes.

So today, we visit and the first thing she doesis point out the photos of the nieces and nephews on holiday in Malaysiaswimming with baby elephants. That wasokay – we’d been emailed the photo, and so didn’t have to discuss it with her, or hear her rave about howbeautiful the boys are, what beautiful children they are, so stunning, she’snever seen anything like it, their eyelashes, have you seen them? Not thistime. Then she whips out the photo of hergreat-niece (one who has never given us the time of day) with her 3 year old daughterand new-born baby. I bite my tongue, andfind something else to do (I’m such a coward) whilst my poor husband has tolook at the photo. He shrugs,easily, deliberately disinterested. “A baby. They all look the same.” Somehow, it isn’t impolite from him. Guys canget away with so much. I wanted to hug him.

Decrepitude

2012-01-20T15:02:00.000+13:00

I still haven’t recovered from the virus that struck me downtwo weeks ago. I am exhausted fromcoughing, struggling to breathe deeply, and suffering from a generalmalaise. I don’t even feel like gettingout on this sunny day, although I’m pretty sure the Vitamin D would do megood. Once again I think, “imagine howtired I would be if I had children.”

But you know, if I had had children, they would now be old enough to look after themselves, do the dishes, tidy the house, amusethemselves by reading or playing on their own, or walk down the street tothe playground. It wouldn’t matter somuch that their mother was sick. I saythis because if I imagine what it would be like to have a toddler at my age, Ifeel totally decrepit. Feeling sick ismaking me feel old enough. And also, Idon’t see why I should feel guilty about moaning about feeling sick. Even not having children, surely I’m allowed tomoan about feeling sick. Haven’t feltthis bad for this long since I had dengue fever.

So apologies for the uninspired posting. Hopefully I’ll be back with some deeperthoughts in a few days. Cough. Splutter.

Traditions, old and new

2012-01-13T11:25:00.003+13:00

Mel wrote a lovely post last week about taking a traditionshe learned about when travelling in Italy, and bringing it into herfamily. It made me think about what I might havedone if I had had children, what parts of my life in Thailand would have becomepart of their life in New Zealand. Iknow they’d have grown up eating Thai food, taking their shoes off at the door,and being told to “jai yen yen.” (Literally, it means cool heart, in practice, it means “calm down,” andmy husband and I use it on each other frequently. It doesn't always work!) They might have learned all about Songkran,the Thai New Year water festival. It iscelebrated in Thailand in April, the hottest part of the year there, and beingsoaked with water isn’t necessarily a bad thing then. April in New Zealand on the other hand isautumn, sometimes lovely Indian summer days, other times freezing temperaturesand time to dig out the winter clothes. It would be hit and miss.

I also loved the Loy Krathong festival in Thailand. A November festival, again a bit weatherdependent but less so, this one only requires some relatively calm water. Krathongs are little banana-leaf boats witha candle, that you float off into some water. It symbolises letting go of all your grudges,anger and negativity. Time to startafresh. I like that idea. I could do with starting afresh occasionally;holding on to negativity and grudges is not a healthy practice, but one I can find myself doing. I do find though that usually Iam able to force myself to let them go (mostly) from time to time. I like to think I would have introduced theidea to my children.

Oddly, these thoughts don’t give me much sadness. Instead, it’s kind of nice to know mychildren’s lives would have been interesting and full, and perhaps a wee bitdifferent, because of me.

Why I Write

2012-01-09T17:25:00.002+13:00

The art of writing is the art of discovering what youbelieve. — Gustave Flaubert

I found this quote. Actually, Wordpress found it for me, giving me the quote as I uploadedmy latest post on A Separate Life. Andit made me stop, and smile. This has been my exact experience.

I always loved writing. As a teenager I wrote for fun, but then university and work, and writingtheses and papers and emails and project reports and proposals used up all my writing energy for manyyears. But when I had my first ectopicpregnancy, and joined the EPT forums, I discovered the only way I was going toget support was if I wrote. I wrote myown posts, pouring out my heart as I went through another ectopic pregnancy andfailed IVFs and reached the end of my fertility.

And being a part of the community, of course I read whatothers wrote, and responded to them, seeking to find what might comfort me and therefore them,and in the process, figuring out what my own thoughts were. The other wonderful women whowere there with me at the time helped me enormously. They were funny, insightful, each with a unique way with words. Some of them were further on in the healingprocess than I was, many had taken different routes, but we all talkedtogether, working things out together. As one of my friends said, we got to know each other inside out. And as I wrote I thought deeply about whatI felt, what I was trying to say, and what that meant. I would frequently say, "I've only just figured this out" or "that's the first time I've realised this." As Gustave Flaubert said would happen, as I wrote I really did learn what I believed.

As the years past, fortified and comforted with what I'd already learnt, and knowing I was nowhere nearfinished learning, I started exploring the ALI blogs, found Pamela andLisa and Loribeth. What a trio to find at the outset! And reading them, I realised that Iwanted to say more; that theself-therapy of writing would only work for me if I was in fact actually writing. Hence, this blog. And just as importantly, perhaps more so, commenting on other blogs so oftenprompts me to think again. Writing astherapy. Learning what I believe. It’s not over yet. I’m glad.

Trying to look on the bright side

2012-01-07T16:02:00.001+13:00

Just as I was ready to get back to the gym, exercise, attackmy 2012 Summer To-Do List, lose weight, enjoy the warmish weather etc etc etc,and - believe it or not - was feeling motivated about all this, I get hit with a nasty cold.

On the bright side, with no kids, I was able to sleep lateand my my husband made me lunch and I felt no guilt whatsoever.

Give me a break!

2012-01-02T17:59:00.000+13:00

Our local newspaper is putting together a summer series ofarticles, which seem to be themed around the idea of a worst summerever. I either haven’t read all thesearticles, or they’re only in the paper every few days. The first was a moving story by a woman ofthe loss of her brother just before Christmas a few years ago. It was a beautiful item, written with warmthand humour and love.

The second article was an insulting and self-indulgentpiece, still subtitled Worst Summer Ever,about a woman’s pregnancy. No, nothingwent wrong. Well, nothing beyond awaiter saying to her “are you sure you’re not having twins?” and her baby notarriving for a week or so after his due date. I don’t get very angry very often, and I hate to start off 2012 with an angry post. But this made me veryangry. Not because she didn't like being uncomfortable - I can understand that. No, I lost it when she said there isa “special kind of hell” waiting to have your baby, not knowing when they aregoing to arrive, dealing with days and weeks of uncertainty.

A special kind of hell? Give me a break! This is ajust-gotta-get-through this-to-get-exactly-what-I-wanted kind of hell – perhapssimilar to a long economy class flight on your once-in-a-lifetime vacation. The kind of hell we all wish we could have.

I thought of other, far worse summers. Those of :

A friend breaking up with her husband of 20 years.

The family and friends of those who have died on the roads(or otherwise) since Christmas.

Those living in Christchurch’s eastern suburbs (the mostearthquake damaged).

Those living alone - the sick, the frightened, the elderly.

Those who lost their jobs before Christmas.

Parents with sick or dying children.

Those who are trying and are unable to conceive.

Or even, my own worst summer ever was spent losing my second and lastever pregnancy (my previous worst summer ever had been the year before, losingmy first pregnancy). As you know, I hadweeks of uncertainty, then months before it was resolved, with more hospital stays, surgeryand procedures. And of course, there wasno baby at the end.

So many of us - not just in the infertility community - would consider the writer’s worst summer ever to be ourbest. I felt insulted that this woman –and perhaps even more so her sub-editors at the newspaper – were so self-centred and insensitivethat they could subtitle this article WorstSummer Ever without breaking into hysterical laughter. Or perhaps they did?

The next article in the series was written by anotherpregnant-at-the-time writer, who had just moved to Wellington with her husbandand daughter from South Africa. She wasalone, depressed, in a strange land where they knew no-one, with a degree of culture-shock, but still positive. She reflected on her joys, and what she had, even whilst admitting how difficult it was to make the adjustment. She subtitled her article, My Best, andHardest, Summer Ever. She doesn’t knowthat she redeemed my faith in women, journalists, and pregnant women. I might write a Letter to the Editor, and tell her.

Speed wobbles?

2011-12-29T18:05:00.000+13:00

I wobbled a bit today. My husband was going to meet up with a former work colleague, who nowlives overseas. He visits every year ortwo, and always calls my husband to meet up. I don’t know him well, but that doesn’tusually bother me. This guy used to bemy husband’s young workmate, he looked up to my husband, and I admit I occasionallywanted to take under my wing so I could spruce him up so he could find awoman!

But time has moved on, and he’s living overseas, marriedwith two kids. And for some reason thismorning, I felt old, barren and fat. And I couldn’t bear the thought of going andbeing polite about his two kids, meeting his young, fertile, no doubt slim wife. So Isent my husband alone.

I haven’t felt like that for a long time. With the benefit of years, I am so muchbetter able to cope, and with the benefit of years, I am so much more in tunewith myself, and my emotions.. And onreflection, I think my insecurity was/is related to a family issue that upset me, rather than my infertility. After all, I managed to spend Christmas Daywith three kids running around, and had a good time.

Still, whilst it undeniably gets better, youdo get the occasional slap in the face with a wet fish. I had mine this morning. By tonight, I’m determined it will be fried.

Wishing you all peace and love

2011-12-25T09:20:00.002+13:00

It's Christmas morning. No children running around this house. Just an aged mother, a husband reading a book, and me on the computer. That's okay. It's quiet, peaceful, and we'll see at least one kid at lunch-time.

I remember how horrible this time of year can be - both my ectopics occurred in December. And so to my bloggy friends who are still struggling with this time of year, with the obsession with family and mandatory happiness, and with friends and relatives announcing their pregnancies today (that has happened to me too), I send you my love. I hope that you can find some peace today and beyond. It will come. However horrible you feel today, it will come.

And remember, when in doubt ... there's always chocolate. Or wine. Or both.

Regrets?

2011-12-20T21:50:00.000+13:00

Pearl asked on my last post "If I stop right now and decide I can try to move on, will I regret it a few years from now? "

I can't of course answer that. I firmly believe that for most of us, we will know when it is time for the decision that is right for us. I didn't have a choice to stop trying to conceive - my IVF clinic told me/us to stop. But I/we didn't then look at donor egg, or fostering, or adoption. That was our choice. We drew a line and said "enough." I won't say I have never wondered if we made the right decision. But most of the time, I know it was the right decision for us. I don't regret it, and in fact, as time moves on, I am less and less likely to regret. And I'm not the only one.

Example 1: Over the weekend, my husband and I were roped into babysitting our adorable 3 year old niece while her parents attended a wedding. At the end of the evening, my exhausted husband looked across the chaotic room covered in Lego/books/blocks/half a chocolate marshmallow Santa, and said "maybe we should be glad we don't have children." He was kind of joking, but not really.

Example 2: Chatting with a friend who went through pregnancy losses about the same time I did, she commented recently "you know, I look back and think that maybe we were lucky we didn't get what we wanted."

I think our brains are amazing at convincing us that we make the right decisions. They stop us regretting the choices we make. I think we are wired to believe our choices are right, and to like or at least accept the lives we have. It is perhaps a version of Stockholm syndrome. If we don't, won't or can't adjust to our new realities, we will be miserable. It's called survival.

Acceptance - What is it?

2011-12-13T19:25:00.001+13:00

This post from This is More Personal got me smiling, andthinking. In particular, this paragraphmade me think back, and remember feeling this way too.

“I remember hearingfrom women further down the path than I, and listening to them talk aboutacceptance, and me thinking, loudly: “BULLFUCKINGSHIT. That is just bullshit.How could anyone ever accept this hell. You are lying to yourself. I will neveraccept this.”

I suspect I might have been one of the people she has swornat!

I think part of it is the definition we ascribe to the word acceptance. For me, acceptancemeans the ability to live our lives the best way we can, within the constraintsof our lives. In other words, we can’thave kids (whether short term or permanently), but we can still have a goodlife, enjoy ourselves, and appreciate the parts of our life that we wouldn’thave if we have children. That latter part is the hard bit often. Acceptance doesn’tmean that we are rejoicing we don’t have children, and it doesn’t mean we didn’treally want them. It’s that guilt thingagain. It is not a betrayal to acceptthe life I have, and make the most of it. I mean, what choice is there? Andisn’t it better to be happy than sad?

Of course, none of this happened over night – for me, or Isuspect for any of the women who have gone through this. It takes time. But yes, even for those disbelievers outthere swearing at me right now, it is possible. And it’s good. Acceptance means that the burden of guilt,the burden of sadness, the burden of wanting what you don’t have, all that isgone. And there is a real freedom inthat.

Honoured to be asked ...

2011-12-07T17:19:00.001+13:00

I'm not sure why, but about a year or so ago, I started searching infertility blogs on the internet. By this stage I had been blogging for a while, and although I'd talked about my infertility briefly, I really hadn't felt that it was the place to go into details. I had earlier found great support on an internet forum, and have made some lifelong friends, but as they drifted off, became parents (through whatever means), it just didn't seem the place where I could talk about my thoughts any more. And so it had been some years since I'd had an outlet for my thoughts on this most personal of subjects. And I wondered what the on-line community was like.

So I googled. One of the first sites I came to, read, and liked, was Pamela's Silent Sorority/ A Fresh Start. She'd written a book, and I downloaded it - one of the first ebooks I bought - and enjoyed it. Here was an intelligent, articulate woman I could relate to, a woman who says it like it is, a woman who has inspired so many others going through infertility. I found a woman about my age, who was also living a no-kidding lifestyle, and who understood the negatives and the positives of this choice. I didn't feel quite so alone.

She inspired me to start reading more widely, ultimately to start blogging, and to "come out" more publicly too. And now, she's asked me to write a guest post on A Fresh Start. If you don't visit her blog regularly, you should. And you especially should to read this post!

Thanks Pamela. For everything.

At ease ...

2011-12-06T09:46:00.000+13:00

Ten years really is a lifetime ago. I can honestly say that the only time I feltsad in the weekend (well, when I wasn’t thinking about my father who would haveturned 83 yesterday), was when I was thinking about my husband and the lack ofchildren in his life. (I've got a post brewing about how this affects our men - and our their loss affects us. But that's for another day.) I had a good weekend, even while I recognised the ten year mark. The sadness has gone. Maybe not permanently, but certainly for most of the time.

You see, I can’t imagine what it would be like to havea nine year old – or can imagine it only fleetingly - simply because I never had an eight year old,or a seven year old, or a six year old, etc etc. It is simply too much of a mental leap toimagine being a parent of a nine year old, and so I just don’t think aboutit. I could try to force myself, but that would be like hitting my head against a brick wall. And why would I do this? I think this is actually how time heals, andwhy it is possible for me to say now that I’m very happy with my life.

I know that after pregnancy loss, some women spend theentire nine months thinking about where they “should” have been in thepregnancy, and then a lesser number spend time marking how old theirchildren would have been. I do that onlyrarely. I remember following how many weeks pregnant I would have been, in the first few months after my ectopics, my brain torturing me to remember, scared to forget, if that makes any sense. But after I wrote all the details down, I was free not to dwell onit. And so it helped me heal.

These days, I rarely think about dates or what-ifs – and ifI do it tends to end up here on this blog, so perhaps gives a distorted pictureof how I feel about my infertility, my losses. My ten year anniversary crept up on me by surprise. I have to think back and calculate how old myeldest would have been. But it is alltheoretical. The emotion that used to bethere, isn’t there anymore, not usually. Myinfertility, and my losses – they’re still part of me. They made me who I am. But these days I am at ease with that. I like writing those words ... at ease. They represent a release of sadness, ofbitterness, of guilt. They show acceptance,and peace. And I like that. Because that’s how I feel right now.

Ten Years

2011-12-02T08:00:00.000+13:00

In commenting on another post about their month ofremembrance and sadness, I realised December had arrived, my own month ofmemories. I realised that it was at thistime that I found I was pregnant for the first time. I was in Manila on a business trip, andcalculated that I was late. I had been asregular as clockwork. In fact, by theend of the day my period was due, I suspected something was up. I stopped over in Singapore for the weekendwith family, and put it to the back of my mind. When Ifinally got home, I plucked up courage to go buy my first ever pregnancy test.

By that stage we had been trying for almost two years. I travelled a lot for work so being in theright place at the right time wasn’t really working for us. I hadn’t really been stressing about it, thoughI was feeling a little sad as I suspected it wasn’t going to happen.

I remember seeing the line come up. I walked downstairs and showed myhusband. I remember sitting down, inshock, not knowing what to think. I remembermy husband sending me flowers the next day at work, and a few days later beingparticularly innovative about managing the “why I wasn’t drinking” stories atsome functions I attended. But it had nosooner sunk in that I was pregnant than I started bleeding. My wonderful GP acknowledged I’d probably hada miscarriage, but insisted on testing my hCG levels to ensure it was exactly that –a miscarriage. Of course, it wasn’t. I do wish all GPs exercised her caution – there wouldbe fewer deaths from ectopic pregnancy, fewer emergency surgeries and medical treatment, fewer women traumatised by coming face to face with their own mortality.

I look back today, and realise it has been ten years sincethat first BFP. It seemslike yesterday; it seems like a lifetime ago.

It's time to send those cards again

2011-11-30T18:26:00.001+13:00

December is almost here, the beginning of the officialChristmas (or for those of you in the US – holiday) season. It can be a tough time for those of uswithout children. I’ll write more aboutdifferent aspects of this, and how I get through it, later in the month.

Now is when we start thinking about sending cards. I’ve seen discussions from friends in the US andCanada, the inadequacy they feel when they send out their own cards, withphotos of two (with the odd beloved pet thrown in) when they receive cardswith photos of their friends and all their children. The pain of opening cards and seeing yetanother seemingly happy family, perhaps a new arrival in the photograph, andthen have to look at those photos till after New Year. What a sock in the face that must be.

Fortunately, here in New Zealand, the personalised photocards are very rare. In fact, the onlyones that I ever receive are from friends in the US. I find it a somewhat odd custom. Perhaps we’re a bit lower key in New Zealand,but we don’t presume to think our friends want our faces looking back at themthroughout the festive season. In the spirit of the season, we sendcards to our friends and family that are about them, not about us.

I carefully choose cards that will fit therecipient. I think I would have donethat regardless of whether photo-cards were traditional here in NewZealand. (After all, I do it with my own home-made cards for friends and family throughout the year). And I hate to bow to a tradition if it doesn’twork for me.

So at Christmas, my religious friends get a card with abiblical scene on it. Children, orfriends/relatives get cards with Santa, often humorous ones in New Zealand thatshow Santa with a suntan, lying on the beach with the reindeer, a beer in hand,and a barbecue sizzling away in the background, you know the type. Other friends will get elegant Christmastrees, or decorations, or for my Buddhist/Muslim friends/family I will hunt out NewYear cards.

It means Christmas cards have never been a source of painfor me. And for that, I’m very thankful.

Perhaps I lie. Theycan be a bit painful, but only when I either a) receive a card from someone I’veforgotten to send one to, and it’s too late to get one posted before Christmas,or b) when I don’t receive one from people I really want to hear from!

Warning: The Debt

2011-11-29T13:27:00.001+13:00

My husband and I went to see The Debt on the weekend. Helen Mirren is afavourite of mine – and the reviews were of a talented cast and intelligentscript. So I was keen to see it.

I will try not to give any spoilers. I will try to choose my words carefully.

I thought the movie was very good. We went for an Indian meal after the movie, and discussed it. Any movie that causes a discussion or debate, that lingers beyond the movie theatre, is good in my book. The Debt is not a big “shoot-em-up” movie, but onebased on suspense, a mystery, and characters finely honed, subtlyportrayed. My kind of movie.

It was a thriller. SoI knew there would be tension. I foundit in an unexpected place, in a very powerful presentation of how the womanagent’s bravery far eclipsed that of her male colleagues. I almost physically recoiled at the scenes inthe fertility doctor’s office. I hardlyrecall feeling so horrified at a movie. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying there was blood or gore or cruelty. They didn't need these devices to make a powerful scene. Idon’t think men will get how creepy, how very disturbing, thosescenes were. Brilliantly played, Ithought. But yes, horrific, andtraumatic. I think any woman would find them so. A woman who has been through infertilitymight find them especially so.

Which is why I felt I needed to make this a public serviceannouncement. I want to warn you, ifyou’re feeling raw and vulnerable about seeing fertility specialists, then thatthis might not be the movie for you. PersonallyI’m very glad I saw it. But I feel light-yearsaway from a fertility specialist’s office these days. It might be different if I had to walk into one next week.

No regrets?

2011-11-22T12:26:00.001+13:00

It is easy for those of us without children but who had wanted children, in ourlower moments, to think that if we only had children all our problems would besolved, or to dwell on how happy and fulfilled we would be. And yet we all know that’s not how it wouldbe. There’s a saying warning us to “becareful what we wish for.” And for goodreason. Nothing is ever quite what youexpect.

So at times, I think about what my life might be like if Ihad children. And my mind doesn’t alwaysturn to the positives. More realisticnow than when I was trying to conceive, I wonder if:

my life would have turned into drudgery, and the house turnedinto a tip, because I cannot imagine I would have been Supermum.
I would be constantly tired and irritated. I know I wouldn’t have found a hidden energy. I suspect that any reserves of patience would be hiding out with the hidden energy.
I would feel resentful of my husband, resenting the factthat he wanted children, and blame him.
I would forget those years of wanting children, and rememberonly the years when I didn’t want children.
I’d be fatter because I finished off my children’s food, orif I’d be thinner because I’d never get time to eat. I suspect it would be the former.
I’d have grown gray not so gracefully, simply because Iwouldn’t have time to get my hair coloured.
my days would fly by, never being able to achieve what I hadplanned, and see the years fly by in turn, or alternatively, if the days woulddrag by, the chores never-ending.
I would feel trapped at the end of the world, trapped in mylife, trapped looking after children.

Of course, I will never know how I would have felt. But sometimes, these days, I do breathe asigh of relief, and think that maybe I was lucky I didn’t have children. Sometimes, and increasingly often, there are no regrets. It helps, it really does, to look honestly at this side ofmy life that might have been, to be honest about my personality and capabilities, and even (at times) to be glad that I don’tever have to find out.

After all, isn’t happiness wanting what you have, notgetting what you want?

Childless, childfree ... or what?

2011-11-17T14:42:00.000+13:00

Beef Princess made another point about the label childlessnot by choice when you’ve had to decide that enough is enough. She suggests Childless by Exhaustion, which Iunderstand and quite like! In my case, itmight be Childless by Running Out of Time. But actually, these days, I wouldn’t use such a description.

The problem is that the labels childLESS or childFREE automatically convey additional information about ourhistory, and our feelings about our situation. And (as you may have guessed) I don’talways want to share that information. These labels make a point of telling people we either feel a loss and that we are living in sadness, orthat we are delighted we don’t have children and celebrate it daily. Some people are very comfortable with those labels, and that’s fine forthem. I can certainly understand thatsome people might choose to use the label childless because they don’t want tobe grouped in with all the negative accusations that are (sadly) often directed at thechildfree. At times I have felt that waytoo, particularly in those immediate years after we learned we would live without children. In those years, I certainly felt child less. But, even then, that is not how I wanted to portraymyself to the world. I abhorred the ideaof pity, and I hated the prospect of successful parents looking down on me,having achieved something I couldn’t. Mysituation was private, and my feelings about it were private. And so the label childless felt toodefensive, too negative, and I’ve nevercomfortably used it.

Now, eight years on, it certainly isn’t the right label forme. Sometimes I feel childless. Or I feel childless with a secret relief. It’s simply not that straightforward, and so Itry not to describe myself either way. Butneither is childfree, because the truth is that we tried to have children. If either of my pregnancies had implanted inthe right place, I might have children by now. And so childfree doesn’t seem quite right. Sure, sometimes I feel child free. Or I feel child free tinged with guilt orsadness for feeling that way. But itdoesn’t fully describe me.

The problem I have with both of these labels is that theyallow others to make a judgement about our choices, and invite an emotionalresponse (pity, superiority, horror, disbelief, etc). And that isn’t fair. After all, the words parent or mother don’thave any such connotations to them, do they? They don’t say “mother by choice” or “mother not by choice” or “parent by accident” or “mother by drunken binge on a Friday night in the back seat ofthe car of a guy she’d just met in the bar” or “parent by broken condom.” They don’t say “parent after ten years oftrying to conceive and thousands of dollars of fertility treatments” or “motherwho thought kids would save her marriage” or “ happy mother who always wanted kids andgot everything she wanted” or “mother who thought she always wanted kids tillshe got them and now wishes she didn’t.” The words parent or mother are just factual statements.

Fact: I’m simply a woman, first and foremost.
Fact: I don’t havechildren.

I'll proffer that information only if it's relevant. I guess that’s why - here and in informal situations - I likeusing the “no kidding” term. It’s simplya fact. It doesn't comment on how others should feel about it, or I feel about it. And as anyone who has read my blog can see, my feelings aren't black and white (even if my blog is).

I’m not kidding.

Just Adopt

2011-11-16T13:03:00.001+13:00

A new blogger, Beef Princess at Simply Not Conceivable, has joined our community. I love the by-line to her blog:

because not everyone can have children, but they can stillhave a life.

This week she got me thinking, and I wanted to respond. And if, in doing so, I direct some readers toher blog, all the better.

She raised the question of adoption. I’ve not addressed this issue yet here, though I plan to atsome stage. I loved her comment that Most people won’t have to try so hardto have kids. They will never have toanswer that question. I think that’swhat makes me so angry about this question, this assumption from the fertilesthat we can “just” adopt. It is so easyfor them to blithely say, “we would have adopted if we couldn’t have children.” But such comments aremeaningless unless they have been through infertility, perhaps spent all theirdisposable income on fertility treatments, exhausted themselves emotionally (asBeef Princess points out) through years of disappointment and grief, put theirrelationship under huge pressure, and perhaps dealt with pregnancy losses orstill-births.” Try saying “just adopt”and mean it after all that. We know itisn’t that easy. And I wish others did too.

One vote

2011-11-13T14:52:00.001+13:00

We are in the midst of an election campaign here in NewZealand. The relief of winning the RugbyWorld Cup has been quickly replaced by the frustration of seeing politicalpollution (candidates’ hoardings) everywhere we go, of listening to thepolitical pollution on the radio when I’m not quick enough to turn it off, andof trying to avoid reading the political pollution on the Internet or in mynewspaper.

So far this year there hasn’t been too much of an emphasison family. Issues include the economy,debt, asset sales, to name a few. To be frank, I’m notpaying that much attention, as I still feel bruised from previous years. You see, in previous years, family was themost commonly used word in the political campaigns. And I understand that for most people their family istheir concern. But for those of us whodon’t have children – don’t have a family in the sense of the word that mostpeople identify with - this is simply another time of the year when we feelmarginalised, isolated, alone. It isanother time of the year when we are reminded that our worth, to society, is solow that our only value is as a taxpayer. It is another time of the year when we are ignored, swept aside, where - despite having a vote - we simply don't count.

No

2011-11-08T18:08:00.001+13:00

THAT question. Do youhave kids? There are quite a lot ofposts around at the moment where the question of what to say to this questionis being mentioned. I know I’ve addressed this before. But I keep seeingthe issue come up - and the common thread is that no-one feels comfortableanswering this question.

Some people feel it is rude not to answer.

Others feel they want to be "honest" and provide details.

Others feel they need to justify why they don’t havechildren.

Others don’t want to answer, but just don’t know what to say.

I remember seeing the film of a psychological experimentwhere someone, in a public place, simply started giving orders to passers-by. The innocent passers-by were remarkably obedient,compliant, submissive even. Theconclusion was that obedience – especially to someone who projects authorityand the expectation of obedience - is obviously an instinctive response. I wonder if that explains why why we feel wehave to answer a question, any question, when we’re asked? Even when we don’t want to? I think this instinct to be obedient, toconform, and not to be rude is especially strong in women. So we’re really in trouble when we’re asked ifwe have kids, aren’t we? It explainsperhaps why we feel we’re being dishonest for not giving out full details ofthe reasons why we don’t have children.

But, you know, I don’t think that choosing to withhold information is in any way dishonest or rude. Why should we feel that way, especially as sometimes the questions are rude/ insensitive /invasive or personal? I think we are simply exercising our right toprivacy. I don't choose to bring upthat topic. So why should I respond, inany detail or at all? And a lack ofresponse, or a simple answer, isn’t rudeness or dishonesty. A rude response might be “mind your own @%$#*&^business!” A dishonest response might bea response that simply isn’t true. But adecision not to answer or give details? That’s not rude, or dishonest. It is simply the answer we want to give.

I chose to give a one word answer – No. Depending on who is asking, I may or may not follow up with any details. But usually, my view is that if they don't know me well enough to know I have children, then they don't know me well enough to know any details! So I simply say "No." And when I say it – with a strong tone, with a degree of finality, butalways politely – I find I am not asked the inevitable follow-up question “why not?” (And let’s face it, that’s the one we reallydon’t want to answer!) By not offering more information, by strongly implying that thattopic of conversation is a dead end, I find that those asking the question – perhaps respondingto their own need to be obedient – move on to another topic too.

I feel strongly that as a community we need to claim ourright to respond the way we want to. Weshouldn’t feel cowed, or victimised, by questions we don’t want to answer. I hope that we all will one day feel strong enough to choose to answer – or not– as we see fit, and without guilt, or fear, or shame.

Cruisin'

2011-11-03T15:50:00.000+13:00

As part of our holiday, we took a cruise from Athens toVenice. It was our first cruise, and wewere amongst the youngest on the cruise - although not the youngest. I remember another childless friendcommenting years ago that her and her husband found they had more in common with the empty-nesters andthe retired folks who were living a childfree life, and how it made her feelold before her time. I felt a littlelike that on the cruise, knowing that my friends with children couldn’t dothis, at this time of year, because of school commitments, and occasionally feeling slightly odd, wondering if I too was old before my time.

But putting those feelings aside, the cruise waswonderful. Waking up every day in a newplace without having to pack or fly or drive anywhere was bliss, enjoying aglass of champagne and the gentle breeze as the ship sailed out of port everyevening was amazing, and sharing it all with my husband was a joy.

And it was childfree. There are no facilities for children on this ship, and so the youngest person on theship was about 18 (other than the energetic, young crew, that is). This meant that thecruise services were all pitched at adults. It was sophisticated; there were of course cocktail parties to start and end thecruise, dinner was late and, in two of the restaurants at least, chic andclassy (I’m trying to find synonyms for sophisticated). It was perfect. And as I’ve mentioned on previous holidays,the absence of children for an entire week was in fact liberating – and youknow, I’m pretty sure I wasn't the only one (childless or not) who relished being in an adults only space for a time.

Freedom of Speech

2011-10-28T12:09:00.001+13:00

Often, the most hurtful words someone can say to a childless(not by choice) woman is “you’re not a mother. You don’t understand.”

These words are said to hurt, to put any non-parent in theirplace. And they do. We feel sad, diminished, lesser than. But I suspect the reason they are said is as a defence, from a place ofhurt. They’re said in response to asuggestion or comment meant to help. Mothers feel defensive, guilty, underattack. (So do we of course but that’sthe irony, isn’t it?) So comments orsuggestions from someone outside their club are felt as a further attack,rather than the helpful, understanding suggestions other mums might give, evenif they are given with exactly the same intent.

And yet, those most hurtful words are true. I’m not a mother. And whilst I can intellectually andemotionally try to put myself in that place, I have never experienced it in theway that they mean. (Because, as we allknow, losing a pregnancy and/or grieving your child-that-never-was doesn’t seemto count).

But I’ve been wondering. Does the fact that I’m not a mother mean I’m not qualified to have anopinion? I personally don’t think itdoes. And I’m tired myself of feelingdefensive and worthless. I know I’mnot. Now, I know I can’t say “I’ve beenthrough this” and provide comfort in that way. But I’m also not tied up with the wave of emotions that influence amother’s decisions. And we all know toothat emotions don’t make us logical, balanced, fair, or even compassionate. They make us defensive, protective,blinkered.

I’ve been around enough friends and family with children tohave observed different parenting styles, and I’ve been around long enough tohave observed the results of those parenting styles. I’m close enough with some children to knowhow their parents make them feel. So Ican see what hasn’t worked. I can, quitefrankly, see the mistakes that are being made, that have been made. (I’m not without compassion – I understandwhy these mistakes are being made. But mistakesthey are, nonetheless.) Perhaps the factthat I “don’t understand” is exactly my advantage.

It makes me sad. Because I know I can’t (usually) say anything without it being taken the wrong way. And I don't want to hurt. I know I can only be there for the children, hear them, let them knowthey’re heard, and provide love, support, gentle encouragement, and whenthey’re old enough, a calm and reasoned alternative view for them to consider.

If you’re a mother, know that we understand far more thanyou think. And maybe our less emotional,less defensive/guilt-ridden points of view might be useful sometimes. If only you were open to it.

Would I still like myself?

2011-10-25T16:44:00.000+13:00

If I had had children, I would have learned new thingsabout myself. But I’ve learned and changed so much as a result of myinfertility, it makes me wonder how different I would have been as a mother?

For example, I find now that I’m much more accepting offailure, and my own flaws, but I better recognise my talents and skillstoo. This has helped me understandothers more deeply, and I find I’m kinder to myself too – beating myself up lessfor my failings.

A few years after learning I would be childless, Idiscovered an enormous feeling of contentment; a feeling I’d not experiencedbefore, one that resulted in acceptance of my life. I couldn’t change things, so I had no choice but to accept. It was calming, and liberating at the sametime. I was happy. I was not searching for fulfilment through something else. I found it within myself.

I’m not sure that I would have had the time and space to learnthis if I had been running after a toddler. I suspect I’d now be judging myself against different standards, and Isuspect I’d be afraid of not measuring up. I’m not afraid of not measuring up any more. Is this a result of my infertility? Or is it just a result of the years passing,of aging?

Let's celebrate

2011-10-20T17:59:00.003+13:00

It’s my birthday today. I have a horrible cold, feel sick and old. But that’s okay. I know it’s only temporary (well, except for the old bit!), and it isn’t theworst birthday I’ve ever had, not by a long shot.

When I think back to that day, eight years ago, the Worst Birthday Ever, I wish Icould hug that sad sad woman and tell her what I know now. That grief is painful but it eases over time. That your mind adjusts. That hope returns, just hope forsomething different. That there areother outlets of an urge to nurture. Thatlife can be fulfilling, satisfying, worthy and content without children. That it does get better. And that that is worth celebrating.

Home Sweet Home

2011-10-15T12:50:00.001+13:00

If all goes well, I’ll arrive home to spring, long evenings and daylight saving, a husband happy to see me, a house that isn’t too dusty, an enthusiasm for the future.

But first, a nap. Couldn't do that if I had kids!