Success stories

Humans aren’t born with a fear of failure. Failure is how we learn. I wish as girls we had all been taught that, encouraged to embrace it. I’ve seen girls terrified of failure, maybe instilled from parents or family or a society that holds up behaviours and expectations that are impossible to achieve. They see their mothers subjected to standards of being able to achieve and have “it all” when their fathers are not subjected to that. They learn that failure is shameful. When actually, it means that at least they tried.

And so when women start to face infertility, they have already been trained to achieve what is expected of them. People assume infertility issues are those of the woman. People judge women without children very differently from how they judge men without children. We’re expected to achieve in our careers and social lives and marriages, and part of that achievement is to have children. So when infertility looms, our fear of failure is accentuated.

I hate that fertility is talked about in such strong, success/failure terms. It's one of the reasons I refuse to use the “failure” word when I talk about IVF cycles that don’t result in a pregnancy or even a live birth. The truth is, we are not responsible for fertility treatment that doesn’t get the result we were looking for. The medical profession don’t know why some cycles result in pregnancy and some don’t. I had a specialist who once said to me, “we know more about the surface of the moon than we do about women’s reproductive systems.” So really, we should never feel as if we have failed. The treatment might not have worked. But failure is a very strong term. It’s not through lack of application, or desire, or commitment. It’s due solely to biological processes working differently than we and our doctors had hoped. To me, that’s not a failure.

I know. It’s easy to say that now. But it’s how I feel. Biology is responsible. There’s no failure. I don’t feel a failure, or even that my body failed me. It did everything it could! The only failure would be if we refused to accept the outcome and the resultant life we have for the rest of our lives. That’s why, at the risk of repetition, I think that so many of the childless are actually the true success stories of infertility. That despite not getting what we wanted, we are still prospering, living good lives, feeling contented and happy, and being decent people. Not taking advantage of the life I had would be the true failure. 

Don’t you agree?

 

 

 

Tough days: they come, and they go

I wrote this almost sixteen years ago, and published it on A Separate Life. It was about those tough days six years earlier, when I was in the midst of figuring out what life was going to be like now. I thought it was worth repeating here, all these years later, just to show that a) I understand what you might be going through, and b) that I don’t feel this way anymore. In fact, it has been a long time since I felt like this. Read the posts around it on A Separate Life, when I was already loving my life. We all get past those tough days. And we find joy again in that strong summer morning sunlight that is returning to the southern hemisphere right now.

“The strong summer morning sunlight was insistent, piercing her closed eyelids, willing her to wake. She struggled to hold on to sleep, because even asleep, her mind knew that she was protected, safe. But the sun won, consciousness was stronger. Her eyes opened. For a moment, serene, comfortable, rested. Then ... loss! She squeezed her eyes shut, but it was too late. The pain followed very quickly.

She spent her days alone. Wandering the silent house, listlessly. Talking to the cat, checking her voice still worked. But he never spoke back. And when, in fits of sadness, she would hold him tight, rocking back and forward in her grief, sobbing, wailing, desperate to feel another living thing close to her, he would struggle against the unfamiliar grip, and break free. Leaving her scratched, scarred, and feeling even more alone.

Mostly, she lived with the ever present sadness, hovering so close to the surface. She kept it in check by a thin veneer of calm, covering the cracks as they appeared as quickly as possible, usually before the tears leaked out, but not always, usually before others noticed, but not always. She found herself weeping easily, at the simplest of things. TV ads seemed to be a weak spot. Unaccustomed to tears, it was as if the tap had been turned on, and she feared that now it could never be shut off completely.

She dreaded the phone ringing, having to make conversation with someone, anyone. Home was a haven. But of course, there were unavoidable chores to do.

“How is your day going?” asked the cheerful, spotty youthful checkout operator at the supermarket. She hated this question. “Fine,” she mumbled, struggling to look normal, incapable of raising a smile. Supermarket shopping was daunting. She was reluctant to go when there might be crowds. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing someone she knew. Having to make conversation, appear cheerful to those who didn’t know, or sense the pity in their eyes, their judgement of her situation. So she went in mid-morning, quickly, furtively. With the retired folks and the new mothers. A double-edged sword. She looked only at the floor or the shelves, avoiding all others.

After the supermarket ordeal she escaped to the nearby cafe for a latte and the opportunity to sit for a while, incognito, for just a while being normal, doing normal things. She would take that when she could get it. The other customers largely ignored her. The teenage girls from the school down the road were appropriately happy and boisterous, beginning the new school term. She was invisible to them, and that was fine by her. The business people unnerved her a little. Usually she was one of them, in another café, discussing the latest office gossip over a coffee. But now she wasn’t part of that club. And felt lost. Because then there were the mothers and babies. Usually one or two were pregnant, a few loud toddlers, and a crying newborn. They would settle next to the play area, spreading out, taking over, leaving their buggies in the way and their toddlers to play. One of them ran along the banquette seating towards her, and stopped. He stood, turning his head on the side, looking at her as if she were a strange alien being.

And she felt she was – a woman without a place in the world, in society. She wasn’t at work, and she didn’t belong to their club.

She drove home. “SORRY” said the neon sign on the big yellow bus as it wound its way down the gorge. In an odd way, she felt comforted. Not too many people had said they were sorry. Or meant it.”

Things I Know because I don't have kids

“You don’t understand.” The statement (some) parents make to those of us without children, either to stop any suggestions of advice, criticism, judgement, or as a defensive reaction when they feel they’ve been criticised or judged. But what really do they mean? Do they mean we don’t know how they feel? Do they mean you can’t imagine parenthood with actually being one? Do they mean we don’t know what’s best for children? Do they mean we can never have an opinion on raising children or children’s behaviour? Do they mean our experience of being a child is irrelevant? Do they mean independent observers – whether experts in the field or not – will, if they are not parents, always be wrong? Or do they mean “it’s hard enough being a parent without feeling criticised by those who aren’t also subject to this type of judgement?” As I write this, I’m almost wishing someone would say this to me, so I could ask these questions. I wonder if it would help them see things from a different perspective? Or would it just make them more defensive?

There are things I know about children and child development because I’ve been a child, because I’m an  observant adult, or because I’m interested in psychology, in relationships, in human behaviour, and personal development. Some of this interest is more intense because I was unable to have children. Some of this interest has come because I couldn’t have children, and was forced to look at the world from a completely different perspective. I'm slowly writing a series of posts over at A Separate Life, inspired by someone who thought of the idea before me, about 100 Things I Know. Many of those "things" are a result of not having children, although I am not spelling it out there. But I thought it was useful to do so here.

These are some of the things I know because I don’t have children:

Things don't "happen for a reason." 

You don't have to be a parent for your life to be valuable.

You don’t have to be a parent or even want to be/to have been a parent to have an opinion on how children are treated in an array of circumstances. I’m not saying I would do any better. But as a non-parent, I can see what isn’t working. As an independent observer, a non-parent could play an important part in mediating difficult situations between parents and children, if they weren’t so often dismissed.

I have noticed that many parents automatically see situations from the perspective of a parent, rather than from the perspective of the child. Sometimes that is necessary. Many times, it is not. In fact, it can be detrimental to solving a problem, resolving a difficult situation, or helping a child move ahead. Their overwhelming empathy with parents (or “as a parent”) precludes them from looking at a situation from a more distanced point of view, or a more holistic perspective.

For example, I know that a lot of babies cry on aeroplanes because they cannot regulate their sinus pain by swallowing etc. It’s nothing to do with being “a good child” or not. I’ve experienced a lot of sinus pain on flights. It is agonising. It makes me want to take a drill and bore a hole through my skull to relieve the pressure. But it is my choice to take that flight. The fact that parents, or perhaps everyone, accepts this for tiny babies and little children, is mind-boggling to me. When would we ever permit a parent to torture a child for up to an hour, in any other situation? But society as a whole seems to think this is fine when taking children away on a flight – whether to go on holiday, visit relatives, etc. Sure, they might not remember the pain. But does that make it any better? You're right, I don’t understand that.

Becoming a parent has both selfish and unselfish motivations – wanting to be loved unconditionally alongside wanting to love unconditionally, wanting to pass on knowledge and interests and passions, wanting families around them in their old age, wanting to leave a legacy, etc. I know that because the reasons I decided to try to have children were, ultimately, selfish for me and my husband.

I know that the act of parenting requires a selflessness to those children that not parenting does not require. Unless … we might be caring for an elderly person, someone who is a dependent for any number of reasons, or we are on-call for particular jobs, work long hours to fund ourselves or members of extended families, etc.

But I also know that it doesn’t follow that not parenting means you are a selfish person, just as it doesn’t follow that parents are by definition unselfish. (I know someone living in a hot climate who actually said that their kids’ rooms don’t get the benefit of their poorly functioning air-conditioning, but because the parents’ room is cool, they just don’t think about their kids).

You don’t have to be a parent to have a feeling about what is fair/unfair, right/wrong, selfish/unselfish.

You don't have to be a parent to care about future generations, or about the planet.  

You don’t have to be a parent to see a child in pain, a child who feels neglected, a child whose wishes are ignored, and feel anger and empathy for that child. 

You don't have to be a parent to want to help children - individually or as a group - who are struggling. In fact, I know many parents who are so focused on their own children, they don't care about all the children at their schools, or in their community, or their country. They haven't got the wavelength to do so, and don't see the hypocrisy in that.

I know that parents generally want the best for their kids, but in pursuing the parent's idea of "the best," they often brush aside their child’s wants, needs, beliefs, and principles.

I know that parents' execution of their parenting philosophies are often deeply flawed, and can leave the children as overly-anxious or suffering because of the parents’ belief in harsh parenting being good for the child in the long run. And conversely, I've seen overly indulgent parenting that does not prepare the child for the realities of the world.

I know that we all learn by making mistakes, children included, and that many parents won’t let their children make mistakes, to their detriment.

I know that I, like any parent, would have made mistakes. But I always disagree when I hear, “a parent/mother knows what is best for their child.” I’m sorry, but there are myriad examples of why this is not always true. Anti-vax parents, for example, just to name one. Parents who keep their children in cults, for another.  Two extreme examples, but the list of more minor examples is endless. Parents who don't listen to teachers, just as one.

I know that children often confide in others, when they know their parents won’t hear them. 

And I know that we will always do our best to help them.

What do you know?