Worst case scenarios

I've written before about infertility and worst case scenarios. At first, we think it will all be easy. The worst case scenario might be struggling to get pregnant. Then if we are lucky enough to conceive, a miscarriage is the worst case scenario. That can escalate, as it did for me, to life-threatening ectopic pregnancies. Then the worst case becomes IVF, then not even getting a chance to complete a cycle, and then childlessness. That gradual but relentless spiral down became familiar, until we reached the depths of where hope for that life did not exist.

I'm going through the same thing now with my husband. It is rough. I know I will come through it, and will survive. I just don't want to have to go through everything that is coming. II don't want him to have to go through what he is enduring at the moment, let alone what is coming. 

On top of everything that is going on, we got some shocking news this week. My sister-in-law, someone I've known since our first year at university together 45 years ago, died suddenly. She had been sick for years, but with the wonders of new medical advances, she had survived the last seven years, and was actively caring for her own husband (my husband's brother) who was facing severe medical challenges of his own. The situation was bad enough already. Talk about spiralling down. 

For obvious reasons, we can't travel to support the family, my brother-in-law and my niece and nephew, in Asia. I am live-streaming her funeral mass as I write this. (The audio is terrible, which is why I am writing right now, but the music is lovely. She was a musician, and would have liked that).  Emotions have caught up with me. Today, it is all too much!

My sister-in-law was always supportive of me. She recognised that my life was different because we did not have children. In particular, she has thought of me undertaking this care-giving role without adult children, or any family in this city. I have always appreciated her acknowledgements that sometimes, life without children is really difficult. 

We'll get through this year, one way or another. I know that. Pregnancy loss and childlessness taught me that. But I've really had enough of these ever deteriorating worst case scenarios.    

And so in honour of my SIL, I prefer to think of the road trip we took together from Amsterdam, where she was living 20 years ago, to Lille and Bruges (or Brugge). For years, we had talked about escaping, just the two of us, and this was our one opportunity to do so. I'll remember us laughing in the leather shop in Lille, in the middle of a Gay Pride Weekend, when we were assumed to be a couple. I'll remember her patience as she drove round and round the one-way loop road in Bruges, until I could figure out the navigation route to our hotel. I'll remember her pointing out all the Madonnas on the corners in Bruges, and eating mussels and later waffles there with her on a sunny, early summer day. And I'll remember her laughing at our soup course at the Michelin-recommended restaurant, as we tried to figure out how to eat it out of the tiny cups, with the sporks we had been given. Patience, and laughter in the face of challenges was a strength of hers, it turned out, as the years to come proved. I think that's a wonderful legacy. One I am trying to emulate.

Other's or Aunties' Day

Yesterday - in NZ - and today - in the US/Canada - it has been The Day that Should Not be Named.  This year, with all the turmoil going on at home with a terminal husband, the day registered but barely. Still, last night as I was going to bed, I got a message from my niece. She's been through a lot. She's studying psychology as an adult student, and doing great, putting all her experiences and growth into the course. I'm very very proud of her.

She said: 

"Wanted to say thinking of you today on  Mother's Day. I cannot pretend to know what emotions get brought up on days like today. So happy Aunties day instead, love you lots."

I think that is the first time, in 24 years of Mother's Days since I lost my first pregnancy, that I've had a message from anyone outside of this community acknowledging that the day might be hard for me. Sure, I made a point of telling one or two people that is was hard, who then recognised that. My mother was one. But this was unsolicited, and just lovely to receive. She made a point of saying she's making a conscious effort to reach out to people in a small way, instead of saying nothing. Which seems to be a family trait. Or a NZ trait. Or a Western trait. Anyway, I've tried to do that too, and she reminded me it is worth continuing to do so. Trying is better than not trying.

Did I mention we are both middle children? ;-)  

So even if the day is tough, and the years are silent, small changes can and do happen.  And they will warm your heart when they do.

Loving the life we have

Elaine wrote a wonderful post - "You can't have everything." Go read it. It's perfect. 

I've mentioned before that my husband was essentially given a terminal diagnosis just over a year ago. At the time, well-meaning friends and family said, "you must be so pleased you had your big trip last year," referring to our three-month trip* to Ireland, UK, and Portugal. At the time, that was TOO SOON! His life wasn't over. But they were acting as if it was. And as symptoms had appeared on our trip, maybe we could have got treatment sooner if we hadn't gone. I felt and feel real guilt about that. The trip's wonderful memories were not a silver lining to learning how sick he was, and that treatment would never be "curative." The trip was a reminder that it may have made his condition worse. And of course, I was grieving then. I still am. 

The "aren't you glad" comments felt similar to the "at least" comments about early pregnancy losses ("at least you weren't further along") or "at least you have each other" or "at least you can travel" when we knew we'd never have children, or "at least you could afford IVF." Comments like "at least" need to be timed better. When loss is new, or imminent, it is not a comfort. It is a little dismissive. It's not going to make us feel better. Even if it makes the speaker feel a little better. And I know the sentiment behind it is well intended. But it definitely made me flinch. Ouch.

We were told during treatment that he would have a "healthy period" and we should make the most of it, and decide what we wanted to do. We went on another trip** -  this time to his bucket list destination of Egypt, and then a cruise through the Straits of Hormuz to Singapore. Of course, everyone now is saying what perfect timing our trip was. They are right. We were lucky, in a year when very little has felt lucky. But there was grief and there were good-byes as well as joy. 

We're now at the stage where we have accepted the ending is coming. We've been talking about our lives, and in particular, our travels. Travelling together was our great love, our great interest, and yes, our great expense! In the years after learning we would never have children, we intensified our travels. From 2002, between ectopic pregnancies, through to 2013, we travelled internationally every year, sometimes twice. That's nothing if you are in the UK or Europe, or even the US, but quite an achievement if you live in NZ, where a seven-hour flight is almost considered "short haul." We had some wonderful wonderful trips. Some were adventures, some big long road trips, some were "blobs on the beach" as we called our tropical beach holidays, depending on our energy levels. After 2013, our travelling slowed for a few years, with health issues and elder care issues, though we still managed to fit in several new countries in 2017 and 2019, COVID caused a glitch for a couple of years, but even then we managed to have a great tour of NZ when overseas travel was out of the question. 

We took these trips because we didn't have children, and the trips from 2004 through to 2013 were deliberate responses to our No Kidding status becoming permanent. They were not just consolation trips. They were trips we had chosen to sacrifice when we decided to try for children. Because of course, if we'd had children, we knew we wouldn't be able to "have it all" either, as Elaine said. Every choice includes a sacrifice too. And knowing we couldn't have children, we decided to make the most of it. 

So now I can admit that yes, I'm glad we had our three-month trip in 2024. I couldn't say that this time last year. But I don't flinch thinking about it now. Well, not all the time. Not badly. Yes, I'm glad we went to Egypt last year too. And yes, we are both very glad that we were able to enjoy those trips together, that we have all those memories of discovering over 65 countries (mostly) together. "At least" we travelled earlier, before retirement. 

And now our world is more limited. So I take advice from Elaine's post, and embrace the little things, that together make something big. We are doing that now. Today's was a coffee and a sausage roll together from a local shop. 

We couldn't have it all. We knew that. We couldn't have children. And we're not going to have an old age together. I am very much feeling that now. I especially feel it as I watch another family going through a similar process, but with the support of two adult children. But that was our life. We couldn't have it all. But we have had a lot. After not having children, we made the choice to accept it, and live. And our life together is not over yet. 

 

 

 * I write about it here - My 2024 Travels - though I've only got through Ireland for perhaps obvious reasons.

** I've documented some of the trip on A Separate Life where you can search "What I did on my holidays" or just click here.  

Cliches - not always as simple as they seem

 I was reading some pronatalism/childless/childfree articles, and got thinking. I don't feel the gap between the childless and childfree, because I have been both. In my earlier years, I had no desire to be a mother or have children. I didn't have much younger siblings, or cousins that I knew well. I never wanted to "play house" or play with dolls. My mother's life was not enviable to me. It looked like unrelenting work, little social interaction (living in the country on a farm), etc. I was interested in being outdoors, or reading of other places and worlds, and dreaming of escape. As a teenager and young woman, I knew I was part of the first generation of women who could actually have a career as a right, whereas women before me had to fight for everything, for contraception, entrance into professions, universities, careers, etc. (Which is not to say I haven't had to do that, but my university classes and work places were filled with men and women of equal talent, which had not been the case for my predecessors. Or even for me when I was at primary school.) I bristled at assumptions that I would do things just because I was female. I'm sorry - I'm sure I am repeating myself in this rant.

So it wasn't until I was in my 30s that I wanted children. And with infertility issues and pregnancy losses, it hit me hard. Twenty years later, I'm still writing about the subject. Because I'm living it. 

Yes, I am a cliche. I'm the woman who didn't want children, until she did. The one who "changed her mind." The one that people warn against, that doctors use as an example and as an excuse not to perform sterilisation procedures, the one who causes the genuinely-held feelings and desires of women to be dismissed. And I hate that my example could be used to shame young women, or restrict their choices, or pressure them into something that they do not want or are not ready for. It infuriates me.

Because I wasn't ready until I was, in fact, ready. And I was determined that I wasn't going to be pressured to be ready before that. I was determined people were not going to stereotype me into a role just because of my biology. I don't think I ever said "I will never have children." But I said, often, "not yet" or "not now." Not knowing was fine. Normal even. It certainly was for me. 

Loribeth at The Road Less Travelled referred to an article about pronatalism, which talks about all the pressure still on women to have children. My head was ready to explode after reading it. Over forty years since I was at university, putting structure to my feminism, and what has changed? I finished the article full of everything I wanted to say to all those people who are promoting pronatalist policies and points of view: Let people make their own choices. Accept their realities, rather than trying to impose yours. Don't be a hypocrite. Don't have double standards for women and men. I never had a lot of pressure on me to have children. Sure, there were expectations, but at least my close family members were tactful about it. (Unlike the uncles and aunts at my wedding!)

These days, I fully appreciate the opportunities I have had and still have without children. But I am also cognisant of the losses my husband and I have experienced, and continue to experience. Lori Lavender Luz often talks and writes about the concepts of Both And. Nothing explains my life without children better than Both And. Joy and opportunity, loss and exclusion. If I had never said "I am ready" then it would have been okay too. I would not have regretted it. I do not regret waiting until I was ready. No-one is a cliche. We all have our reasons and stories and lives, and we are all different. Just let us be who we are.

 

Childlessness in a book that wasn't kidding

I recently read a book recommended by Loribeth. Yes, I've been managing to read again and listen to audiobooks. Yay. You Are Here is by David Nicholls, a wonderful writer, and takes you on a journey across hills and dales in England. There's a discussion of childlessness at one point, in which a character mentions  "the tyranny of proving your life is fulfilled, and not a leaky bucket." (paraphrased as I listened to it as an audiobook).

I've written about that here - the expectation that we have to have a Next Big Thing if we are not having children. When actually Life is our Next Big Thing. And it comes with joys and challenges just like life with children. 

Later in the book, I noted a comment about friends re-emerging from parenthood as their children grew up. That too has been my experience, and I have of course written about it too. That friends are able to be friends again, without the all-consuming need to be with their children. I've even noticed that friends who dropped us years ago because they were only or mainly socialising with other people who had kids, the parents of their kids' friends, for example, have now reappeared. Maybe they realised that those were really friendships of convenience, and once the children were grown, they didn't have much in common? I don't know. But the reappearance has been nice too. Of course, none of that made the fact that we were dropped any easier. Or reduces my new levels of wariness around them too. But being open to reclaim these friendships has been good for all of us.

How nice to see ourselves reflected in a book in a calm, non-histrionic way, when childlessness was not the central feature of the book, but it was a very present, talked about, and acknowledged feature that contributed to the richness of the characters and story.