Non-apologetic childlessness and grief

Do you remember the days when your entire beings were consumed by their infertility, your quests to become parents, or your grief knowing that it would never happen? Maybe you are still there. I am pleased to say that it passes, in fits and starts, till one day you can barely remember it. Even if the pain returns, it is no longer that all encompassing emotion it once might have been.

However, my recent reality, with my husband's serious diagnosis and prognosis, has reminded me of this. It helps me to understand that it will pass, eventually, whatever the outcome, although the fits and starts might last the rest of my life. It helps too to remember the nature of grief, of worry, of irrational thoughts, and know that it is all normal.

Sarah Roberts of The Empty Cradle posted this the other day, and it spoke to my situation now, and in the past, pretty perfectly. 

A poem, by Brittin Oakman, a Canadian poet:

I lied and said I was busy.
I was busy; but not in a way
most people understand.
I was busy taking deeper breaths.
I was busy silencing irrational thoughts.
I was busy calming a racing heart.
I was busy telling myself I am okay.
Sometimes this is my busy - 
and I will not apologise for it.   

Some of my thoughts are irrational, but many are not. They are just me coming to terms with a new situation. But still, silencing some of them definitely helps. That is a skill I have learned through infertility, and I know I've written about it here a lot. And I do not apologise for doing it again. I also might not be telling myself I am okay, because I'm not, really. But I am telling myself I can get through it. Even if I don't want to. So actually, I am not lying if I say I am busy. I am doing all I can to keep myself together.

Someone suggested recently that maybe I should be doing a lot of things that need to be done now, rather than putting them off. Yes, getting them organised now would be great. But I just can't. The same person was surprised I couldn't read much lately, as they thought escapism would help. Escapism would help, but so many books are so full of gloom, of difficult circumstances, they are not escapist. Besides, reading takes concentration. I hadn't seen this poem at the time, but I am thinking maybe it would be an idea to send it to them. 

Anyway, I leave the poem for anyone it might help feel validated and less alone.

 

Thinking about support

I've been thinking about how we support each other recently. Not only because I have been in need of support this year, but also because a close friend is now in need of support too, and I want to continue to be there for her, when I am able. I learned a lot back when I was going through my ectopics and hospital stays, etc. I learned what worked for me, and that is always helpful. And I learned how to support others as a result. But I'm definitely still learning, and have been far from ideal over the years, I am sure.

Here are some thoughts on support, and how to be supported: 

• Reaching out really helps. Knowing someone is thinking about us helps. It doesn't matter that there's nothing you can do. It just helps. 

• Or if you haven't heard from them in a while, reaching out lets them know they're not forgotten or alone.

• Not reaching out - even if it is because you don't want to bother the person who needs support, or don't know what to say - can make them feel that you don't care. 

• Listening helps - not just to our woes, but to what we say helps. A friend overseas commented that she was twittering on about her travels, when we were going through some awful stuff. I said it helps. And now I love getting her messages with photos of her adventures. Better than flowers! I might not be able to be out and about travelling now, but that doesn't mean I want everyone else to stop. 

• Don't put the onus of information updates on the person or people at the centre who need support. Ask! They can say "I can't talk about it right now" if they need some space. 

• Be honest. My friend and I have talked about how we can continue to support each other, unless circumstances mean we can't. We know we can easily say to the other that we are overwhelmed or busy, and know the other one will understand. So let people know what you can, or perhaps why you can't, do for them. 

• Be aware of the person's preferred method of communication, and use that, even if it isn't yours. This is a big one for me. It's not about you! I'm fine on the phone with people I'm close to, but sometimes I just can't talk about it. So I rarely enjoy phone calls out of the blue. One person in my life has been told at certain times of my life not to call me. She always respects this. In fact, recently I had to say, "I'm okay for a call!" A text saying, "can you talk if I ring you right now?" is great to receive, even if our response might be, "not right now, maybe tomorrow." I'm good with texts/emails/written communication (no kidding! lol), but I know others prefer talking directly. So when they are at the centre of something, I call them. (I know that, because I was once berated for messaging not calling!)

• Pace yourself! Don't overwhelm the person at the centre, and don't rush in with support that you're going to be tired of providing in a few months. Especially if they're going to need more support down the line. Pace yourself, so you can be there for them later.

• Read between the lines. If someone is giving limited information, don't pry. I have a friend who always, always asks follow-up questions. Yes, that's nice. But sometimes it's a bit much. It's why I didn't tell people I was going through IVF. Oh, the thought of all those questions! Yet I could be quite detailed about my ectopics, because it had already happened.

• Hope and optimism is good, but let people sit with sadness and dread too. Don't dismiss their feelings by telling them to cheer up, especially if they are still dealing with a new reality. Those of us who have gone through infertility or pregnancy loss certainly know that, don't we? We need time. 

• Think before you speak. Yes, I've blurted out one or two things I haven't meant to in the past, and one statement in particular still haunts me. I'll never do it again.  

• But also, be normal! Normality is so great. A good conversation, lots of laughs, a meal together, etc. It reminds everyone of what brings us together, or why we might be friends or beloved family members.  

• Don't make it about you. I'm thinking of parents (not mine) who grieve the lack of grandchildren, and put it on the childless people who are grieving their own loss. Or people who want to see someone who might not have much time left, and don't think about what they might want, or when they might want it. 

• Don't expect the person in need to make all the adjustments to the relationship, or to remember to contact you, or keep you up to date with ongoing events, because you don't want to be a nuisance. I remember, in the midst of several procedures I needed to resolve my second ectopic, that I had assumed a particular person was being kept informed by others. And they were, pretty much. When we eventually spoke, they indignantly said to me, that even though I hadn't kept them informed of everything that was going on, they did still care." The blame was put on me. But I'd not had a single message from them when they knew I'd lost the pregnancy, and three months later, still going through procedures, I'd never heard from them. Not a text, not a card, not a voicemail message. As you can see, 20-something years later, it still irritates me. (I need to forgive them. Except exactly the same thing has happened before, and is happening now.)

• Be kind. The kinder the better. Then they can be kind to you too, when you need it. 

 And as a person receiving support:

• Be grateful.

• Don't feel guilty for getting support. People like to feel they're helping. Let them. 

• Further, remember to ask for help. It's one of the hardest things to do, but once you've done it, it can feel so easy! I did this in the middle of my ectopic. I dreaded the response. It was wonderful. What was I so worried about? Almost everyone likes to feel they can help another person. So let them! 

• Accept that people might not be in touch, because that's how they handle these things. Their reaction is not about me, even if the situation is all about me! If that makes sense. They're not doing it to hurt me. (I don't think). 

• Forgive. Forgive the difficult comments, and actions. Life is too short to hang on to them. (Yes, I'm consciously working on that. I'm half way there!) 

• If you can't forgive, maybe explain. I did this with infertility - explaining what has been lost, or why I don't "want your children," It's the same now - explaining why a comment isn't helpful can actually help both of you. 

•  There is dignity, I think, in accepting support gracefully. It's not a failure, not weakness, just evidence that life hands us all difficult times. We can fight it, but that does us little good, or deal with it. 

 

Now is not the time for accomplishments

 Wow, I didn't realise it had been well over a month since I had posted. How easy it is to slip out of a habit!

Mel's latest Roundup pointed me in the direction of Middle Girl's blog here, in which someone (who can be found here at 8thDay)  made a comment that really spoke to my situation now. It also reminded me of all those who are grieving their loss of fertility, of the loss of their dreams of a family, and that time of coming to understand accept that we would never have children.

"This is not the time for accomplishments."

I've been feeling that way now. There is so much I need to do, but at the moment, surviving with some sanity intact is about all I can manage. Remembering to breathe. Treading water. And that's okay. 

It's okay too when someone is realising that their life will be one without children. Getting through a day without collapsing in tears (or at least, not too many times), with managing a smile or even a laugh, with appreciating the sun's warmth or a cool breeze (depending which hemisphere you're in right now), with appreciating and maintaining your primary relationships, and with getting some sleep, or managing to eat right or even exercise; any or all of these are actually major accomplishments. It's easy to feel we are drowning, when what we are actually doing is surviving. "Accomplishments" are all relative.

Grief for what we are losing and the future we thought we'd have is paramount at such a time, and that's okay too. Anticipating the future can come later. Of course, inevitably, it creeps into our thoughts. But we need to deal with that in manageable lots, especially at first. Major decisions can come later.  

This is not the time for accomplishments. I've often written about the feeling that we need a "Next Big Thing" if we are not going to have children. But in reality is that the next big thing is just getting through the next hour, day, week, month or year. If there is an easy "next big thing" then that is great. But my experience in watching women (and men) grappling with the idea of a No Kidding life has shown that most of us do not have a "next big thing." Why does there need to be one? To fill a hole? It will fill a space, but it won't fill the hole - just life fills the hole. Very gradually, and to different extents and in different ways for us all. That is life.

But today. Today is just today. We're surviving, not drowning. Whenever you feel that you're being swamped, or that everything is just too much, be kind to yourself. It is not the time for accomplishments. Accepting that makes life a little bit easier. 

 

 

Loss and the community

The lowest time of my life was when I was going through pregnancy losses and infertility. The loss of my parents was less traumatic, both because it was signalled in advance, and because my life really was separate from theirs on a day-to-day basis. But the pregnancy losses, infertility, and discovery that I would never have children changed my life - or rather my vision of it at the time - in a fundamental way. There was a lot I had to come to terms with. Failure to get the outcome I had tried to achieve. Isolation and "otherness" from society. Recognition of my own mortality. Acceptance of my body's limitations. Judgement, pity, and condescension from others. The list is longer than this. I also remember a time when I really didn't want to go on. Though I'm glad I did.

I've been thinking a lot about that in recent weeks. How I don't want to feel those depths of despair again, but how I know I will. How I got through them and came out the other side. How I had my husband with me during that entire time. How physical touch said volumes when words couldn't. How isolated I felt from most of my friends who were actively parenting at the time. How finding my tribe online really helped. How my family wanted to understand but didn't. How people were afraid to talk about it with me.

It's weird how that going through a health issue is both similar and yet very different. Similarities include  finding that "worst case scenarios" can and do suddenly get worse and worse, and each time we adapt. Loving each other becomes so much more important. Taking enjoyment in the little things helps us cope. A focus on what's important - food, sleep, connection - also helps. Oh, and the platitudes too are the same. "It will happen" turns into "get well soon" or they'll "pull through, I know."  I'm remembering too that emotional turmoil is exhausting. 

But there are differences too. And whilst I'll talk about this more in the future. There's one difference that has been startling. Friends and family are concerned, offer help, send or bring food. I've told them to pace themselves - at the moment we don't need too much. There is community support, both in health terms and in support networks. So far, no-one has really distanced themselves from us - digitally or physically. Certainly not unexpectedly. But having a particular illness that is known and understood in the community, even if it is rare and aggressive, brings connections and support that pregnancy loss and infertility did not. There isn't the shame or judgement or just silence that I experienced around infertility and pregnancy loss. 

Isn't that sad? Even though I welcome that unfamiliar level of support today, I feel sad that people going through infertility right now still feel that isolation. And just want them to know that we have been there, and understand, and send love.

 

 

 

Disrupted plans

I started blogging here when I was at least seven years past learning I would never ever have children. I'd done a lot of grieving, expressed some of my feelings online with friends in a restricted space. I've never done the full emotional download onto my blog that some others have done. And now I know my blog is connected to my own, real name - as connected as I feel to Mali, who has been my online persona since 2006.

I remember some years ago seeing someone say (online, not one of my beloved bloggers) that their plan for their childless old age was to stay healthy. At the time I remember thinking (and writing here) that that wasn't a plan, it was just putting their head in the sand. My parents lived fit and healthy lives, but the ends of their lives were difficult. Genes and cancer had other ideas. Looking at them, I knew I needed to plan. I know now how right I was.

I just thought I'd have a few more years before they were necessary. My husband and I are going through some pretty serious health stuff right now. It's caused me to realise that even my relatively cautious plans have now been blown out of the water. I'm going to take a step back from No Kidding in NZ. I'll still blog, but just not every week. Because there's a lot going on in my head at the moment, and I don't want to write it all down for public consumption. And it's hard thinking of topics to write about when my every thought is about another issue. 

But living in the moment helps. Finding joy in a lovely day, good food, a joke. I wrote about it in my 2020 Healing series, and Gifts of Infertility under Mindfulness. It helps each day pass. I don't apologise for the repetition.