Vulnerability

Further to my post last week, maybe a renewed sense of vulnerability can encourage me to make some changes/put in precautions. Things happen. Little things. Big things. But we can't stay with our head in the sand thinking that "things won't happen until we are old." Because "things" don't always wait!

I know that those who are childless are not the only ones who feel vulnerable at times. Those who have children who aren't close - either geographically, or emotionally - must feel the same vulnerabilities. Those living alone must have a heightened sense of their own vulnerability. It is yet another example where the saying "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" doesn't work. It also reminds us we're not immune from bad luck. Ignorance truly is bliss. But I'm not sure I'd like to go back to the ignorance, despite everything. 

Sending out love to anyone who is feeling vulnerable at the moment. You are not alone.

 

Ageing without children: Self-motivation needed

I have been thinking a lot about ageing without children recently.So far, I've talked a good game, but haven't done very much. I need to work on my to-do list. I'm still young enough that I don't have to have done anything major just yet, but a recent conversation has inspired me to get cracking! Here's an update on previous posts:

Making a Will that I am relaxed about with still hasn't eventuated. We made Wills before our trip to Europe last year, and they are okay. We changed quite a few things, and had a number of deep conversations and made different decisions than ten years earlier. But it still feels a bit piecemeal. We really need to settle on something we can live with (or, more accurately, die with) for the next five or ten years. It's really hard when some members of our family don't need any money, and one or two others do. It's difficult too when we actually want to make a difference in the wider community, and in the medical research community, but can't really decide where or how. A quandary.

I know I need to think about a Power of Attorney. But aside from the Husband, I don't really want anyone else making decisions about me! I know that's not realistic, and I know I could write something like a living Will. But how likely is it that people will follow it? Sigh. Chalk it up as still on the list.

Downsizing our lives is much higher on my list now than it was a few years ago. There are a lot of things to do before we move - we have major maintenance to do, and want to finish off a few other jobs around the place. But it is something I'm much more aware of. I need to look around for where we might live, get an idea how we can downsize. Our current place is three-four bedrooms, and quite large. We've lived here since the 1990s, and whilst we've cleaned out quite a lot of things over the years that we no longer need or want (eg university papers, etc), there's a lot more that needs to be done. I did some decluttering last year, and felt good about it. So I'm hoping I can get into that some more this year too. But the frugality I was raised with, and my resultant need to keep things that might be useful in the future, means that I struggle a little with this.

On the bright side though, I'm not really acquiring new things, unless they are replacements. I'm wearing a T-shirt today that I just realised is over ten years old, and yet I think of it as relatively new. Sure, I have newer T-shirts. Yes, we want a new TV, and need new armchairs. But I don't feel the need to shop. I find that quite liberating. Yes, I like new things. Yes, I will buy new things if I need them, and get pleasure from that (if I can find something I like). And no, I don't want to be like my MIL who, in her late 60s, told me that at her age she shouldn't buy new things. She lived for another almost 30 years! But I'm not establishing myself or my house either. So I can be much more picky about what I spend money on, and what takes up space in my house. I like that. 

I think we will need an interim place - somewhere without stairs, and more manageable than a section on a hill with lots of greenery - for the next ten years. I'm starting to think about where that might be, and how we might live. We survived for three months in one bedroom apartments, but I think we need something slightly bigger. But we don't need a house this size. And we need to clean it out long before it becomes too hard. 

Ultimately, the plan is maybe to move into an assisted living facility. I've read some No Kidding bloggers who are horrified at the prospect. I'm not. (I think I can see another post coming about this.) Hopefully, we will still be able to afford to do that. Prices are rising rapidly, and our income is not. Trump-induced stock market falls do not help retirement savings! At the same time, we want to continue to travel. So we're being quite frugal in our day to day lives. I like to think that a few dollars saved on my groceries somehow compensates for a three month trip overseas! Yes, I'm delusional!

Finally, building my social network is slow. I'm socialising with friends regularly, but still haven't joined any groups to extend my friendship circle. Yep, like everything else, that's still on my list.

Please forgive the repetition. I think I use these posts as motivation to actually get things done! Let's hope it works.

Childlessness and Pregnancy Loss

I listened to an interesting podcast the other day. Those of you who know me might be surprised - I definitely struggle with podcasts. In fact, I started to write an explanation, but have turned it into a post on A Separate Life this week. But this was one I had to hear. Because Loribeth featured on The Full Stop podcast, in a discussion that is very pertinent to me - Childlessness and Pregnancy Loss. Don't continue if you're not ready for this, or if you have difficult feelings around pregnancy and pregnancy loss. (Though I try to address these at the end.) You'll find the link here via  Loribeth's post about the podcast. And a warning: it's a tear-jerker!

As any regular reading of No Kidding in NZ knows, I had two pregnancy losses in my path to Otherhood, and then spent years participating in and moderating an ectopic pregnancy website, before I even thought of starting this blog. So I was interested to see what angle the discussion might take. Any limited time for four people to discuss a topic is, of necessity, going to limit the discussion itself. (In her post, Loribeth mentioned the "gazillion" things she wished she'd been able to say!)  We understand that. And there were some very interesting points. These are my comments on it.

First, the issue of silencing ourselves was raised. Loribeth has talked about this too, but I was thinking about it from my own perspective. Talking about loss seems to be largely taboo in our society. The whole "don't say you're pregnant until after the first trimester" really says "it doesn't count until you are properly pregnant." (I had someone say, "oh, it's still really early then" as if it didn't count, even though my nausea was very real. I'd announced my pregnancy early only to my family at Christmas, as they would have wanted to know why I wasn't drinking! But it was dismissed.) After a loss, the rule of no early announcement says, "we don't care about early pregnancy losses." People don't want to hear it. It's as if you're "not really pregnant" or, as a friend said to me, "you never had anything so there was nothing really to lose." So even when we have a loss, we are unable to talk about it. We are silenced. 

In ectopic terms, this too is incredibly dangerous, as it means a general lack of awareness by both family and friends, the women themselves, and their doctors. Women's early pregnancy pains or other symptoms are easily dismissed. I was lucky that I had a great GP, who wanted to monitor my HCG levels to ensure I was having a miscarriage. When my levels did not fall, but rose insufficiently, it was clear I was not - it was an ectopic pregnancy, which instantly means "danger." I've since seen many many women - one woman is too many - be told by their doctors not to worry, they're just having a miscarriage, only to end up in hospital with life-saving emergency surgery after internal bleeding, or needing emergency medication. I remember Bamberlamb telling me that, when presenting at hospital with symptoms of her third ectopic pregnancy, she had to ask the nurses/doctors for their names so her husband would know how to name if she died as a result of a ruptured ectopic pregnancy. It was only then that she got the help she needed. And it was only because she had been active on the Ectopic Pregnancy Trust Messageboard that she knew all the symptoms and what they meant - and knew them far better than the medical professionals at the emergency department.*

But, as the podcasters noted, we also silence ourselves. At first we do it out of self-protection, I think. I found I could talk about the mechanics of my ectopic pregnancies - the reality of the medical treatment, what implanted where, etc - more easily than the fact that I lost the future baby. Anything involving emotions would have set me off - I wasn't much of a crier before loss, but then the floodgates opened! So I preferred not to talk about it, except with a select few, or online, when you can type even when the screen is blurry through the tears. I also felt embarrassed and ashamed. I don't now. Not at all. But at the time, emotions are complicated. Protecting ourselves as we work through them is important self-care.

We also silence ourselves, trying to be sensitive to others. We don't want them to be uncomfortable, so we hide our own emotions and therefore our own experience. We don't want newly pregnant women to worry any more than they might. But in doing that, we are also not being honest about how it affects us, or the significant percentage of women who experience loss or childlessness. I find it interesting that it is often the grieving person who is forced to be the most sensitive to others. (Don't get me started!)

But all this silence is not entirely honest either. When we can cope, when we are ready, talking about loss openly is much more honest, both to our own experiences and our own relationships with others. It must help those who will come after us. Because there are always those who come after us, and knowledge is important, awareness is life-saving, and information is power. That's why I worked in the field (voluntarily) for years, and why I still try to talk about it openly when I feel it is appropriate and/or necessary.

Support, as Lori mentioned on the podcast, is something we take when we can get it. But often that support drops away, especially if people go on to have children and drop off the radar. She found that in her support group, and I found it also at the ectopic messageboards, as more and more of my friends went off and had their families, and disappeared. I didn't really belong there except in the anonymous moderator role. But my presence, like Lori's as a leader of her support group, was important visually, just to let people know we were okay. And then I found blogging, where I do belong, even if I live on the other side of the world from most of you. That's why I love this community so much!

Michael, of the Full Stop podcast, also talked about how "the ghost (of his and his wife's losses) continues to be with us." Their losses are around birthdays and Mother's Day, and that is hard to ignore. I can relate to that. I learned I would never have children at a scan on my birthday, and both my ectopics took place over Christmas and New Year. Others I know remember the dates of their last IVFs, or when they decided not to look at assisted reproduction, or adoptions fell through or they had no choice but to opt out.Though I'd like to give some hope. After over 20 years, I can think of those dates and losses with love and compassion for the woman I was, but largely without the pain. (Although I admit that the Mother's Day reminder is an unkind double whammy.) I've written about this here, and here, amongst other places.

His perspective on how a man grieves, whilst at the same time wanting to help his wife, is complicated too. He had nowhere to find support. I remember my husband saying that his GP asked "if his wife was over it yet." I don't recall him saying the GP asked how HE was handling it. And I remember how, when I was feeling better recovered and stronger, that my husband felt he could finally open up to me more about his feelings. 

Finally, there was a really interesting discussion around envy amongst the childless community. Even though we are all living lives without children now, the speakers felt the envy of those who never got the joy of that positive pregnancy test, or who felt the losses of the children they never had but don't feel they can talk them as losses, or those who never had their losses recognised, or those who never named their losses or had those names recognised by family and friends, or those who never held their lost babies, or those who never saw them take a breath, etc. And those who are envied might also envy - it's only natural, I think. They might envy those who never felt the fear of an emergency hospital intervention, who never felt the grief of a late-term or full-term loss, who never had to take medication or have a D&C to end an incomplete miscarriage, who never had to tell family/friends/colleagues of their loss. 

Envy is, of course, for what the other person had, not what they lost. It's a blindness, and is only about the loss felt by the envious person (eg. the lack of a pregnancy positive, or a good scan, or heartbeat, etc). And that is real. But we also need to know the existence of that envy can feel like we are negating what the subject of that envy has lost. That the magnitude of their loss feels cancelled out by the moments they had that we might not have. 

That's where compassion comes in. And sometimes, compassion can only come with time, when we are less self-centred, and our envy can morph into true compassion and empathy for another's loss. I think, I hope, that the childless community is good at that, ultimately. Most of us recognise that everyone's grief is different, and there's no better or worse.

* I know all this is wordy and perhaps repetitive. If one woman finds this information about ectopic pregnancy, and it helps her or someone she knows, it is worth noting.

 

Beauty

It's hard to think of things to write when the world we've known since we were children is changing on its axis. But I heard something lovely this week that really struck a chord with me, and I wanted to share that instead. 

It was a discussion about the Japanese art of kintsugi, fixing broken pottery with gold, making it more beautiful. The discussion linked the idea with that of "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." I know many of us don't like that. Whilst it sometimes a little bit true, it is also true that sometimes "what doesn't kill us" pretty much destroys us anyway. It certainly changes us, and it can make us feel much more vulnerable, and often weaker too. I've written about this before (click here), looking at the both/and of this statement. I know Bamberlamb hated this idea too. People would say to her, "you're so strong," when she had no choice but to go through surgery, chemotherapy, and inevitably, facing death. So often, that statement is a way of stepping back. It denies the pain and the fear and the sadness, and removes support, when instead it should show the speaker stepping forward and offering aid and love and an ear.

So I cringed at the "fix the broken pottery and make it stronger" analogy. Until the next speaker pointed out that it also makes it more beautiful than before. That, I can deal with. Even in anger and bitterness and fear, that so often comes from feeling broken, our emotions are beautiful, because they are genuine, and come from a place of heartbreak, of humanity, and so often, from love. 

Accepting those cracks, those fractures, and where possible, healing them is such a sign of dignity, which is beautiful. It all leads to growth, which is also beautiful. Especially when that growth means we are more self-aware, and more loving towards ourselves and our flaws (the broken bits). Yes, there is beauty in perfection, but so much more in imperfection, I think. Perfect (in humans) is artificial. Broken, imperfect, but filled up and healed with love and compassion and sensitivity - for ourselves and inevitably for others - is honest and very real. And yes, it is stunningly beautiful. 

I see it in my comments all the time, and in the other blogs I read, and messages I receive, and people I have come to know here in this community. You're all beautiful. Remember that.

 

Bamberlamb: A Tribute

As many of you already know, our fellow No Kidding blogger, Bamberlamb of Its Inconceivable, passed away last week. Her last post was a year ago, telling us of her secondary cancer. I know she touched many lives, including my own, and I send love to all those who have been affected by her death.

I first knew her as Lambsie, on the Ectopic Pregnancy Trust's messageboards over 20 years ago. In the years I was going through two ectopics, she was experiencing her second and third. She was such a voice of fun, but also, and always, of compassion. Understandably, it hurt her when others did not show the same compassion to her. So like me, she sought and found understanding online.

We spent a few years online together when we were trying to conceive and/or recovering from our losses. Most of those who were online with us went on to conceive and have children. (After all, only about 10% of women who have an ectopic pregnancy do not.) But Lambsie and I did not, along with one or two others, including the author of the wise "inside out" comment I referenced in my post last week. 

I was lucky. In early 2005, I travelled to London to meet a bunch of women from that messageboard, and went on to stay with a few of the women I had connected with. I spent a lovely few days with Bamberlamb and her adored husband. They had a great relationship, and thought the world of each other. I know he has been her carer in recent months, and has done everything he can to make those comfortable and enjoyable. I hate to think what he is going through now.

Eventually, after several years of being present and supportive of other women, our role became more official, albeit anonymous. We both became EPT moderators, and given an official pseudonym. The moderators had a private site where we could seek confirmation that our information was correct (we were assisted by a medical lead, who had access to some of the world's leading specialists in ectopic pregnancy), share how to deal with difficult people, and work through our own issues. We did that together on an almost daily basis, for six years. 

Bamberlamb/Lambsie had a wonderfully kind way with words. Even if privately she might have been frustrated with a person's attitude or insensitivity towards others (as we all were from time to time), outwardly she was the voice of kindness, of compassion, and most importantly, of no judgement. She never made it about* herself. She was always so eloquent, she always found the right words for the right occasion. It was a skill I often envied. But rather than envy, I tried to learn from her. To know what to say that might help, and most importantly, what not to say. I fall short, I am sure. But I will keep trying, for her.

I met up with her several times in trips to the UK, and I have memories of noshing on cream cakes with her at the House of Commons on the banks of the Thames with some of our friends and colleagues, and a lively dinner with some other friends afterwards. The last time we met in person was 11 years ago. Sadly, she wasn't up to meeting on my last trip, and I completely understand that. My visit was just a little too late. It is frustrating having international online friendships and not being there in person. If I could have made meals, popped in to help with the cleaning, or run errands for them, I would have. I know many of us would have. Just as we know she would have done that for us too. I at least wanted her to know how much she was loved, by so many of us all around the world.

I wish I could have heard her sing in her choir, beyond the one youtube performance I was able to see a few years ago. I'd have loved to have been able to support her. Likewise, I know she was a talented artist. However, she once told me that her losses took away her love of drawing. I like to think that she used that talent, her observational skills, and her  ability to see light and dark and shades, in other ways, not least in her blog.

She gave me credit for starting Its Inconceivable, and becoming active in the No Kidding community. I know that, like me, she missed the messageboards when our roles ended. The support we gave each other also helped us, and without that, life was a little lonelier. It was why I started blogging here, and after a few years of encouragement, she started too, bringing another voice and different perspectives to our number. And she became much more active than I am in one of the UK-based childless communities, continuing to support others even when she was going through something terribly difficult.

Right up to the last, she kept her wonderfully whacky (and sometimes wicked) sense of humour. It is what I will always remember about her. Her humour, and her compassion, and enormous capacity for love. Love will be the prevailing emotion I think of when I think of her. What better legacy could she leave in this world than love?

 

* This post is not about me. Please focus any comments towards Bamberlamb/Lambsie.