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. 

 

The healing power of travel

Klara at The Next 1500 Days has written a most beautiful post about visiting a glacier and how it helped her and her husband heal after their first IVF, and gave them strength for the future. Go read it here, if only to see the fabulous photo, but also to read her wise words. Klara and I both love travel. So of course, she got me thinking. 

Before we started IVF, after our first ectopic pregnancy, we took a trip to France.  I have written before about it here, about how it taught me to hold joy at great beauty, and sadness for a loss at the same time. Later, between our first and what would be our last IVF attempts, we had six weeks between cycles, and we took off to nearby Vanuatu for a short beach holiday. More recently, after a difficult diagnosis and treatment, we have been on a bucket list trip to Egypt and a cruise. It took us away from the reality of diagnoses and treatments and necessary home maintenance that were threatening to overwhelm us. 

Travel brings me great joy, whether it is through extraordinary landscapes, or famous sites, or food, or learning new things. That joy, for a short time, helps me forget sadness, or at least, it helps remind me that I can hold both at the same time. In fact, travel almost requires me to do that. Because at home it can be easy to push away any pleasure because I might feel guilty for feeling joy in awful circumstances. I felt that with the loss of pregnancies, until I allowed myself to let go of the guilt. Travel almost demands we do that. After all, we owe it to ourselves to enjoy something that is out of the ordinary, something we paid for, something that has taken a great effort to experience. 

It can even allow me to forget those stresses and realities of life. Because there is only so much we can hold at once. Travel insists that I concentrate on a new environment, maybe different languages and almost always cultures. That brings a real focus on where I am and what I am doing, on experiencing the immediate, the now, and of being aware and appreciative. And in opening my heart to wonder and joy, to experience that, makes it is easier to shut out some of the troubles we are facing. It allows me space to breathe. My posture improves, my shoulders relax, and the biggest stress is (usually) where to eat dinner each night. It makes it easier to forget sadness. And therefore easier to relax. When we are mindful, and focused on that, it gives our brains and our hearts a welcome and much-needed rest. It allows us to stop thinking about the "what-ifs" and what is going to happen in the future. Our brains and our bodies can relax. Our souls can heal, just a little. It allows me some rejuvenation of body, if possible, and almost definitely of spirit.  

By opening our hearts to experience the now, to be mindful, I feel relief. I noticed this first when I just needed to be away from a stressful job. Then after some more serious life events, including pregnancy loss. Travel, for me, provides some healing, and reminds me that there is much happiness to be found in this world, if we stay open to it. I am especially aware of that if I am relaxing in a gentle breeze in Asia, or absorbed in an animal sighting in Africa, or appreciating a beautiful village square in France, or most recently watching a lovely sunset over the Nile. But there is joy in a sunset at home too, or in a funny encounter, or seeing a beautiful flower. Travel has helped teach me that, too. Even if or when we know that there is worse to come, a brief respite of mindfulness can be welcome relief.

The stress of being in new places might be too much for some people. Certainly, travel is not completely stress-free, even when we love it. I'm not a brave intrepid traveller, oblivious or blase about risks in different environments. But for me the benefits outweigh the risks.  That is not the case for everyone. I know too it is a luxury to be able to travel. I hope I will be able to continue to travel, but nothing is certain. So if travel is not for you, I am sure there are other things that can deliver the same awareness and relief for you. When I think about it, a hobby, a good book, a walk or run, a film or play or gig, a day out, or even cooking and eating a delicious meal can be healing, if we let it, if we are mindful, if we are open to letting small moments of joy and peace into our hearts when all else feels gloomy.

 

 

 

 

 

The importance of connections

I remember when I had my ectopic pregnancies that I could talk about the "mechanics" of the situation - scans, what an interstitial or cornual ectopic was, etc etc, relatively easily with friends and family. But as soon as it got into the emotions, I couldn't speak. I'm not someone who cries easily in public. Or should I say, I'm not someone who wants to be able to cry easily in public. I hate it! I try not to. But ectopics and infertility opened the floodgates. And being in contact with kind people who were empathetic saved me. Blogging here has reinforced that. Helping people who are going through hard times, or just having a space for myself to have a moan and a wobble, a space where I know people will understand, has been a gift.

So this last year has been tough. People ask how I am, and I talk about my husband's condition. If they're extra kind, they'll say, "and how are YOU?" and that's the danger zone. So I explain that, through the tears threatening to spill, and see if we can change the subject. The thing is, I don't even know what the answer is. So even if I could talk, I'm not sure what I'd say. The kindness though, starts the waterworks. Accepting their sympathy and/or empathy is really tough. So I let them know I appreciate it. And that contact helps. Whether it's a blog comment, an email or whatsapp, a dinner or coffee out, or a visit. Support comes many different ways. Sometimes the most meaningful is also the simplest.  I am pleased to be reminded of that, so I can help myself, and at the same time support others too.

 

Managing our energy and boundaries

 Well, I blithely wrote about The Freedom of Caring Less last week. But here's a confession. Sometimes I am much better at putting myself first than others. Friends this morning reminded me - in a good way - of the importance of boundaries, and ensuring that we have enough energy (or spoons) to get through the day. I'm talking about "spoon theory" - a concept that explains how we manage limited energy. I'm not always good at this. 

Setting boundaries and not sacrificing or silencing ourselves for others is easy when we do it with people who might be a little distanced from us. But it's a lot harder when people are closer. When we don't want to hurt people we love, but don't actually have the capacity to do more, to listen more, to be the friends or family support we really want to be. Or would be, in other circumstances. But we want to hold those people close too. Because they matter.

I guess that's life, isn't it? We all have limited spoons. We all deal with different issues and situations, and therefore are in completely different grief or crisis circles or rings (see "ring theory") when it comes to the comfort-in/dump-out ideal. Putting comfort in can be really hard if we are already in crisis in a different situation. Likewise, dumping out to someone who is already in crisis isn't really appropriate either. The rings don't overlap, do they? But it's really hard when there are several active crisis rings in my life, and I'm at a different place in each of them. As are my family and friends. There are no rules or maps for navigating that. And no extra spoon/energy allocations for any of us.

I guess I'm saying, I don't want to give the impression that all or any of this is easy. Even though it is easier than it was, and I'm much better at it. I still struggle. I'm trying to find an even path that feels right to me. And I still have limited spoons, and none in my bank, so I need to be careful and take care of myself. It's good to have good friends who can remind us of this.

The freedom of caring less

I think I'm the classic middle child; always the peacemaker, the diplomat, the one who thinks about everyone else but not always myself, agreeable. Maybe that's not middle child, maybe it's just me. I was shy too, so a lot of my younger adult life and career was spent pushing myself to do what scared me, and - it felt - to go against some of my natural tendencies. It usually paid off, but it wasn't always comfortable. However, this was really about defending my own views, or even about developing them. As a child, I'd not felt as if my views mattered. As a student, and then a young worker, I had been intimidated by people who would confidently speak up definitively, even when they were definitively wrong! By my late 30s, though, I felt much more confident that before. The humility of a middle child was morphing into someone who could recognise that, actually, I knew as much as (or more than) the people around me, and I felt more able to speak up. 

After a few years out as a result of the confidence-destroying ectopic pregnancies and infertility, it picked up, full steam ahead, in my mid-40s. Especially helpful were the psychology lessons of adapting to my life through pregnancy loss and subsequent childlessness, volunteering daily for the Ectopic Pregnancy Trust where I learned and gained confidence from wise women around me, and then later, blogging. My confidence grew as the way I thought and approached life became more one of enquiry and knowledge and growth. I bit my tongue less, felt better able to discuss rather than just agree even when I had questions or doubts, and decided that other peoples' opinions and feelings (mostly) did not matter more than my own. 

So I'm still polite, but I don't agree with making myself or my views invisible just to keep the peace. I may not have raised children, and therefore I haven't had to sacrifice my own needs or wants or even opinions in that way, but I've certainly silenced myself for years. And it came to a point where I just said enough. These days I own my views, my opinions, my dignity, my worth. And I'll speak up about it if I need to. I'm still measured about it. Thoughtful, I hope. But I don't want to be silent.

Infertile Phoenix here highlighted a blog post that talks about why women in their forties and fifties (and beyond) suddenly stop biting their tongues. Go and read her post, and then the linked post explaining the neuroscience behind it. 

I'm not sure to what extent the neuroscience explains my own transformation - I'm on estrogen-only HRT, but maybe that's not sufficient - and my personal and career development at the time seemed to explain it to my satisfaction before I read the article. But it is still extremely validating to find that I'm not alone in my feelings about previously putting myself last. And that I can be confident in my choices now to put myself first - or somewhere in between, but always with the knowledge that it is up to me, and me alone.  It gives me the freedom to be myself. What a gift!

 

 

Also relevant: 

Gifts of Infertility series: Self-confidence
Gifts of Infertility series: Self-discovery