Biting my childless tongue

Over the last month, my husband and I have had three separate groups of visitors. Two crossed over with each other so we could have family dinners together. But I didn't estimate how exhausting it would be dealing with all the stresses and emotions of the visitors, the catering, the cleaning, the planning and the conversation. I guess starting at a high stress level doesn't help, does it? 

We had lots of laughs, and good times, and I appreciated all the visits, the wine, the avocados, the lunches and dinners bought for us. The adults-only nature of the visits was a change too, and made it easier. I am not ungrateful, and overall the visits were wonderful.

But I have to get a few things off my chest that I am pretty sure only my readers and one or two friends will understand. 

Actually, although I'm sure parents in my situation would feel the same, they might not be quite so afraid of saying the wrong thing, because they're never going to be hit with "you're not a parent, so you know nothing!" Not that anyone said this to me. It's just that I am always conscious it could be coming. 

Sometimes I laugh, and pre-empt the comments, saying, "I know I don't have kids, but at least that means I can't be criticised for doing the wrong thing, or doing the opposite of what I say I am doing!" Often that's enough to get a message across, and to point out the obvious before they do. 

Then I bite my tongue, as I hear about:

• kids not being given the freedom to choose what they study
• assumptions that only certain professions will a) make money, or are b) worthy for their kids
• kids who rarely get told "no" because their parent feels guilty 
• anxious kids, who desperately want a parent's approval, but the parent doesn't realise it or won't give it
• kids who are almost neglected, because they are "out of sight, out of mind"
• kids who are still treated like kids, and manipulated and encouraged in the direction that the parents want, when they have been adults for years!
• parents who are in complete denial that they are infantilising their adult children
• parents who believe they are allowing their kids to make their own decisions, but are clearly not
• parents who are horrified that their children are treating them the exact way they (the parent) treated their parents.

And yes, I know that last point dates me! 

It's also really frustrating to see male parents modelling traditional male behaviour to their daughters and sons, while their very capable (perhaps much more capable) wives bear all the emotional labour as well as all the physical work of parenting. So it also frustrates me to see the wives model traditional female behaviour to their daughters and sons too. As an old feminist, you can just imagine my stress levels rising, cumulatively, over the last month!

Mostly, though, I wanted to reach out and hug the (now adult or almost adult) children who were the subjects of many a conversation. And tell them that to wish to be someone else is to waste the person they are. Or to succumb to someone else's wish that you be someone else is to waste the person that they are. There are things we learn through pain and loss that could really help the next generation. 

 

And given that this is a bit of a rant, I'm going to finish saying that it is also frustrating to be spoken to as if I am indeed a teenager or young adult who knows nothing of the world, because this is how the parents speak now! Especially when the parents show little or no self-awareness of that. (Okay, I did not keep silent about that.)

So I bit my tongue, daily, sometimes hourly, sometimes every minute! Well, mostly. Ha ha!  

The thing I most wanted to say, though, and didn't, was "make your own damn cup of tea!"

And now I am going to make myself, and only myself, a cup of tea and relax.
 

 

 

 

Systemic bias against the childless

The following is my susbmission for the World Childless Week 2025 topic: Childless Healthcare.

Systemic bias against the childless

“You know how babies are,” the nurse said to me after I asked her to keep the door to my hospital room closed, because the baby down the hall kept crying. “No, I don’t,” I responded. “Mine keep dying.”

On the gynaecological ward where I was being treated for a complicated ectopic pregnancy, pregnant, but already grieving the loss of my second pregnancy and facing the prospect of a pregnancy related cancer, the sound of a baby crying was like a knife to my wounds. I would have hoped that a nurse might have thought about her response with a degree of sensitivity. Unfortunately, she barged into my room, even after I had pointedly shut the door, and interrogated me about how long I had been married, and then asked me accusingly, “why did you wait so long?”

On that same hospital stay, I was sent to radiology for extensive scans. I was asked if there was “any chance I was pregnant?” I had to explain that technically I was pregnant, but that it wasn’t viable. They hadn’t even read the referral that noted the scan was specifically to rule out gestational trophoblastic disease.

Fortunately, most of my health professionals have been a bit more tactful. For example, a wonderful midwife in the outpatient Women’s Health unit made sure I didn’t have to wait with other noticeably pregnant women. And on the aforementioned hospital admission, I had already been moved from another four-bed room, when one of the patients was visited by multiple children and babies. A kinder nurse had seen me leave the area, heading for the sitting area, a little upset, and had moved me into a single room. Drs rushed to explain in advance that “spontaneous abortion” was unfortunate medical terminology simply meaning miscarriage if they slipped up and used it. And I haven’t been (openly) judged about weight, age, etc when going through infertility. So I guess in this way I have been lucky.

 

But systemically, healthcare fails women, including or maybe especially women going through infertility or pregnancy loss, as we are the minority. And our emotional health, when we are often at our absolute lowest, can be cruelly ignored. Hospitals are not set up for us, and actively make our experience worse. For example, our hospital had an ultrasound scan waiting room with walls covered with posters illustrating the development of a pregnancy. Important information, but very painful to those losing their pregnancies. And of course, the waiting room was full of pregnant women. My eyes stayed low. Not the best choice of location to receive the diagnosis of a second, more dangerous, ectopic pregnancy, but that’s where the consultant chose to give me the news, even though there were more discreet side rooms that could have been used.

Over the months it took my ectopic to be treated, I also had to attend several outpatient clinics, once again surrounded by other pregnant women. I forced myself to have compassion because they may also have been experiencing difficult pregnancies. But the belly-rubbing (a stage I never reached) never stopped, and I once again feigned interest in the carpet. (These days I would at least have a phone to stare at. Not so easy to escape twenty years or so ago!) Would it be so difficult to have screens in waiting rooms, or in some way ensure that those losing or having lost pregnancies have reduced exposure to the heavily pregnant?

The Dr at the fertility clinic was kind when telling me that I had reached the end of the road. Still, in his haste to get me out of his office now that there would be no more lucrative payments from me, he offered to get the counsellor to call. Of course, that call never came. Cast adrift in my lowest hour, I received the message that I was no longer a priority to anyone.

Fortunately, in New Zealand, regular smear tests are given by our GPs or family doctors, and so I didn’t need to see another OB/GYN until I needed a hysterectomy more than a decade later. At my initial consultation, the wall behind the examination bed was festooned with baby photos, and was like a smack in the face to me, bleeding and uncomfortable, and acutely aware that my uterus had never been of any use to me. I could have accepted – begrudgingly – if the photos from his grateful patients (with successful outcomes) had been in his main office or in the reception area. But above the bed with the stirrups? That smarted. And after the hysterectomy, when I was recovering in hospital, the surgeon’s nurse dropped in to check on me, which I appreciated, but then she cheerfully told me all about the lovely family dinner she was having later to celebrate Mother’s Day.

Unfortunately, we are mostly exposed to these comments, images, and situations when we are feeling the most vulnerable. I’m a well-educated, confident woman, and could and would stand up for myself if these comments were made to me today. But every time I experienced bias, it felt impossible to speak up for myself, or to protest the assumptions and systems that discriminated against me, and that diminished me. I wish I had done more. It's why I speak up now – here, on my blog, and in the media from time to time. And I really hope that things are improving for the women who follow me.

World Childless Week 2025

 

 

 

Who deserves to hear my story?

 The following is my World Childless Week 2025 Submission for the topic: Have you got kids?

Who deserves to hear my story?

Have you got kids? The question so many childless women and men dread. The question that has made us shrivel inside and want to disappear, or has sparked tears in our eyes, or that has infuriated us. I’ve had all these reactions, but these days, over twenty years since I first knew that I would never be a mother, my most common reaction is a sigh of resignation. That question again.

I sigh because it is such a lazy way of getting to know someone, of finding commonalities. If you’re talking about your children and their children, are you really getting to know someone? Or just their children?

I sigh too because it is a question that assumes that we all have children. Yet if everyone listened to signals, they would know that people either refer to their children early in a conversation, or they don’t. If they don’t, then they either don’t have any, or they just don’t want to talk about their children, for any number of legitimate reasons. The information is there if they would only listen for it.

When it is relevant, I will freely volunteer the information I do not have children in conversation. Pre-empting the question, on my own terms, casually and in passing, gets the message across in a usually painless way.

But still, the question is asked. “Do you have kids?” I sigh in frustration, because it’s just a question to them. But it is more than that to me. Even now my brain still jumps to a whole host of other questions I must consider before I answer, such as:

·         Do I have to tell them? Why?

·         Do I make a joke?

·         Do I go into any detail? If so, how much?

·         How are they going to react? Will they judge me?

·         Do I need to brace myself to hear tiresome, inaccurate and sometimes offensive cliches?

·         Do I have any smart answers for them today? If not, why not? And, isn’t it time I got some?!

·         Will I need to tactfully remove myself from the conversation? Do I feel like being tactful today?

·         Does this person really care about the answer, or do they just want me to ask them, “do you?”

·         What is my face saying right now?

I do find strength though, in knowing that it is my choice how or even if I answer. I do often wish I could decline to answer completely. Even if someone else demands to know my reproductive history or choices, I am under no obligation to give them that information. It is not rude of me to choose not to answer at all; it is rude of them to demand an answer. If there is awkwardness, I haven’t caused it. I’m afraid I haven’t yet come up with a response avoiding the issue entirely that sits comfortably with me. … Or maybe, today, as I write this, I have. Twenty years too late:

“Oh, let’s not talk about children today!” I wish I had said to the woman sitting next to me at the networking lunch for women in business who asked me this before anything else. (When I answered “no,” she turned her back on me and ignored me for the rest of the function!) It wouldn’t have given any information about my parental status. It would have just emphasised that it wasn’t the right time for that conversation.

Still, I almost always answer the question. Saying “No” and nothing more, is my most common response these days. The silence after “No” speaks for itself. It doesn’t invite follow ups. It invites a change of subject. “No” is a complete answer.

I know a lot of childless people take comfort in having a “script” so they don’t have to think about what to say each time. I’ve never had one – my answer can and does change with every person who asks the question. It depends on my mood, how well I know or want to know the person, how I think they will react, whether they might listen or not. I might choose to educate, or I might be in no mood to share. Sometimes, an open and honest conversation with a person I might never see again can be quite therapeutic. It depends on the day, the moment.

Sometimes I feel the need to share and educate. It might be as simple as letting someone know that this question isn’t the easy ice-breaker they think it is. It can be done, informally, in conversation. Or more formally. I remember the shocked looks on a bunch of engineers’ faces when, at a networking course I was running, I suggested that this was not always the best question to open with, and explained my background. They’d clearly never thought about it. And let’s face it, most people haven’t – until they have to.

If the question has been asked genuinely and kindly, then I might be prepared to expand on my answer. Even the blithely ignorant, if I think they can learn from it, might get a more detailed response. If my answer is followed up with an accusing “Why not?” I am much less likely to be helpful. That’s when the flippant “the cat/dog would be jealous” response gets trotted out.

I’m all for educating the public. But it is not my responsibility to do so when I am not feeling up to it, or when I think that the person will never understand. So I ask myself, “does this person deserve to hear my story?”

That’s the most important question, and the essence of my approach. My story – like any childless person’s story – has endured loss, disappointment, hope, expectation, pressure, and heartbreak. Even relief, and joy. That’s a complicated mix. So I don’t share those emotions lightly. And I give myself permission to say “No.” That in itself is empowering.

Who deserves to hear your story?

World Childless Week 2025

 

 

World Childless Week 2025

World Childless Week starts today. Well, if I'm accurate, it probably starts in about six hours time, given time zone changes, but I'm also probably one of the first bloggers in the world who will write that first sentence! (I'll take my small wins where I can!)

I have contributed two pieces this year. As I say every year, this blog is both My Story, it speaks to I am Worthy, and Moving Forwards. Even if events have meant this year that my own story has meant I have been thinking back a lot. It's about life after infertility, and life as a childless woman, and embracing that life as much as possible.

The topics this year include: 

• Our Stories – Monday 15 September 2025
• Childless LGBTQI+ -  Tuesday 16th
• Childlessness and the Arts – Wednesday 18th
• Childless Health Care – Thursday 19^th
• Have you Got Kids? – Friday 20^th 
• We are Worthy – Saturday 21st
• Moving Forwards – Sunday  22nd

I've written submissions for "Childless Health Care" and "Have You Got Kids?" and will post them here later this week.

I hope you get to take part in some of the activities of the week - whether that is actively in a webinar, or just reading the submissions - and that it both inspires you and helps you feel less alone.

Thanks to Stephanie Joy Phillips in the UK for founding WCW and putting in so much work every year to bring the community together. 

 

 

When does caring count?

Does caring count if you never show that you care? 

People who find it difficult to support others – “I don’t want to say the wrong thing” – always forgive themselves (or so it seems) by saying, almost as an afterthought, “but I do care.”

As if that is supposed to make their silence or insensitivity okay.

Others excuse them by saying, “they find it terribly hard.”

And in saying that, they easily dismiss our feelings of disappointment, neglect, isolation. In fact, we’re practically admonished for feeling hurt.

I understand that others might have limitations that mean they can't provide the support we want and need. Even after we specifically articulate what we want and need. But being told that "they care" is really irrelevant, if the person in need of support doesn't feel that. Doesn't even hear it, because it is never said by the person who counts. Having to hear “they care” from a third party kind of proves that they don’t care enough to tell you themselves. That their feelings of awkwardness and discomfort outweigh our feelings - of trauma, of loss, of despair, of grief, or whatever is relevant when we desperately need support.

For those of us in the No Kidding space, this feels all too familiar. We are told not to make people feel awkward, put our feelings after others. Our losses are minimised by flippant or trite comments; "just adopt," “here, have mine,” "you never had anything to miss," "at least you can <fill in the blanks>"  etc, that dismiss our concerns about not having children. Someone once said to one of my sisters-in-law that she never knew what to say to me when I lost my pregnancies. “I’m really sorry, I don’t know what to say,” would have been nice to hear. How hard is that? That person maintained their silence for 15 years!

So I’m not even asking the question. I’m coming to a conclusion. Caring isn’t Schrodinger’s caring. You don’t both care and not care until you break your silence. Because it is the silence that hurts. Sometimes, it hurts a LOT.

Caring doesn’t even matter if you never show it.