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

 

Anxious anticipation, and support

I recently took part in a social media discussion about meeting up with an old friend when we're childless. A poster was nervous - since she had last met up with this friend her long term relationship had broken up, she hadn't had children, and she'd had some difficult times. She was dreading the "what's happened in your life since I last saw you" question. And she felt embarrassed and ashamed about how her life had turned out.

I recognised her feelings acutely, remembering back to the years immediately after my last ectopic and attempts at IVF. I dreaded meeting former acquaintances who had taken on the "earth mother" mantle. I don't have those feelings anymore. If people want to judge me for not having children, or having pursued a different career path, or retiring early (partly by choice, partly not), then that tells me much more about them than anything about me. Because I have had years to deal with this and figure it out, and I'm content.

I said to her that her feelings were familiar. And that the worst of these situations were never how people acted towards me, or reacted to my childlessness (some good, some not so good). The worst was always what I imagined people might say or think about me. This made the anticipation of an event so much more miserable than it needed to be, and always worse than the event ended up being. 

Of course, as I've said here a lot, it was the voice in my head telling me to that they would think I was less, that then made me wonder about it too. But then I realised that I could retrain my brain, ask myself if those thoughts and feelings were true, and then dismiss the thoughts if/when the answer was no. I have written about it, in slightly different contexts, frequently under the label "negative thoughts." With this visual:

 

I reminded her too that she is worthy, worthy of friendship and love, regardless of whether she has children or not, is in a relationship or not, etc. 

There was a lot of good advice for the anonymous poster, and I was so pleased to see social media being used to support and help someone.  Here are some of the best suggestions for her from the others:

1. You are in control of what you tell her and what you don't. Another person said, you don't have to have a deep and meaningful conversation - keep it light, meet over an activity (eg go for a walk) as a distraction.

2. Everyone has something going on. You might be surprised that her life isn't as perfect as it seems.

3. Is the anxiety more about what we internalise from society's expectations of us as women, rather than what she may think of you?

4. Your friend might be feeling nervous too, after such a long gap. "She's going to judge me for being so family oriented," etc. 

5. See it as a low stakes situation. You're just having (insert lunch/coffee/walk etc). If she is judgemental, don't give her any more of your energy, and if she is not, great!

6. Be yourself. You don't need to overshare. Stories can be shared over time. 

7. "Half my friends are single and childless." The social norm is still considered families and mothers, but the reality is different.  There's nothing unusual about you.

8. Highlight the things that make you shine. If she is the right person, talking can be healing. Your friend will be over the moon just to see you again.

 

Happy No Kidding New Year!

Hi everyone! I'm sorry I have been away for so long. But I want to say Happy New Year, and send very my best wishes for 2026, whatever it may bring.

My silence has had two reasons. The first was the continuing saga of a health situation, that really took my attention from almost everything - reading/audiobooks/podcasts/radio listening, interesting TV watching  (other than comfort binges), writing (here and on A Separate Life), etc. Suddenly last year, my No Kidding status was secondary to a grim health prognosis, and a different future than I had imagined. That idea at least was familiar.

But the second reason for my silence has been our decision to live life while we can, and to take a bucket list trip. We hope there will be more. We are by no means confident that there will be. So we took the opportunity, and took off. I'm going to blog about it on A Separate Life. But here are some of the No Kidding thoughts I have about it now that we have returned.

We chose a trip that had two possible timings - December/January, or April/May. Our doctor advised that the first was the wisest choice. It did not bother us at all that it was going to occur over Christmas and New Year. A couple of relatives had been seriously thinking about joining us. Until they knew it would be over Christmas. They couldn't possibly be away from their (adult) kids at the time. We shrugged. This was not a problem or obligation or desire that we had to contend with.

Second, the trip included a cruise. It was on a line we wouldn't normally choose, and in general, the passengers made us feel quite young! Whilst kids were allowed (another cruise line advertises itself in NZ as "No kids, no casinos!" lol), there were only about four or five children under ten, and a bored looking teenager. I'm not sure what their parents were thinking. So all the activities were adult-focused.

Thirdly, as we queued for entry to the ship, we got chatting to an Australian couple. Almost instantly, the woman made us aware of how many kids she had, and where they lived. It was as if she was justifying relocating for her retirement. I was amused and a little sad for her that she felt she had to mention this. It seemed as if she had either faced criticism over the move, or wasn't happy with it herself. And I hoped that they were on the cruise out of sheer excitement for the opportunity and itinerary, rather than as a way to fill the holiday period with activity. (Yes, I can overthink things!)

Finally, and most importantly, we met a lot of people on the cruise. Yet, aside from a younger woman mentioning how much better constructed/lighter/easier modern day prams/pushchairs/strollers are these days compared to 15 years ago (and it was in an appropriate context, though that completely eludes me now, so I just nodded), not a single other person mentioned children or grandchildren. Well, apart from the aforementioned Australian woman. (I'm sure the two or three parents who had children with them would have, but we never interacted.) No-one talked about work either. We talked about cruise lines, and food, and destinations, and where we lived. A few people tried politics, but when they didn't get the reactions they wanted, it was easily dropped. It was gloriously without posturing or judgement. (And considering the obvious wealth of some of the people on the cruise, there was plenty of opportunity for that.)

Actually, now I think about it, one other couple mentioned children. They said, quite simply, in a cautious way that I recognised, that they didn't have children so could retire anywhere they chose. "We're in the same position," I said. We then had an interesting conversation about great places to retire, whether to move away from friends, different considerations, etc. Our lack of children, or how that came about, just was not important. But it meant we had things in common.

I compared that with poor Infertile Phoenix's experience on her trip. I don't know if it is our age (though grandchildren discussions could easily dominate), the fact we didn't provide any openings for children/grandchildren discussions (whereas her travelling companions might have), the nature of the cruise line, the nationalities on the cruise (dominated by Australians and Brits), or the itinerary (very much a destination-based cruise rather than swimming and sun and fun), but it was gloriously child free. 

 

 

Hope vs Optimism

 I was reading something by Rebecca Solnit on social media the other day.  (She wrote "Men Explain Things to Me.") Whilst she was talking about society and politics, something she wrote stood out to me as being totally applicable to infertility and childlessness.

"But hope for me has never been optimism. Optimism is "everything will be fine ..."  

How many times did we have that kind of optimism thrust back at us during infertility and loss? "It'll work out," or "don't worry, it will be fine" comments from either those who got what they wanted, or those who never had to try to have children, or those who were just uncomfortable with the topic and wanted us to be quiet and be happy so they didn't have to worry about us. This is how I see and define optimism, rather than hope. I know not everyone does.

Solnit continued:

"Hope for me is always that there are possibilities. And we have a responsibility to try to realize (sic) them, and to not realize (sic) the worst possibilities."

This is so true, when we apply it to our No Kidding lives. Hope for the childless is hope for something different, for making the best out of our life, for enjoying what we have, for thriving, not just surviving. The worst possibility for us is to always focus on what we lost or never had, rather than our current lives. Because then we will live a life that is sad and lonely. Or to refuse to accept our diagnoses and prognoses, and live on unrealistic optimism which puts our lives on an indefinite hold, until age catches up with us. I also include ignoring our situation or belittling it as unimportant, or being marginalised, is one of those negative possibilities. Someone going through infertility always seems to think that the worst possible outcome is to be childless, but they are so focused on what they want, thinking about an alternative future without children is too scary for them. And so they don't see or (often) choose not to see what other wonderful possibilities there can be in a No Kidding life, or the changes we can make for ourselves and for those coming after us. 

There are so many opportunities to have a good life, to change people's attitudes, to embrace our situations. Simple optimism doesn't really address these.  But hope does.

I tried to explain some of this to a friend a few months ago when talking about our situation now. She was preaching the importance of optimism, and how important it is to recovery and even survival. I am  aware of the studies that show a positive outlook can be beneficial. But to me, you can be positive and feel gratitude, life your life positively and have better quality of life, but at the same time and prepare for the worst whilst appreciating and enjoying what you have. 

I don't agree however that blind optimism is beneficial. It might be fine if you're not aware of realities, of statistics, of science, or prognoses. But if we are people who like information, then we can't ignore science and facts. And so blind optimism goes against our intellects, and even our instincts. It doesn't prepare anyone for what is coming, and most importantly to me, doesn't necessarily allow you to feel gratitude for what you have in the moment, because you're only looking to the future you want, not the future you are going to have. We can be realistic, but still have hope. 

And being realistic doesn't have to be negative either. It winds back around to that idea of acceptance. Acceptance means you're not fighting against a prognosis (eg childlessness), even if you maintain hope that the statistics might fall in your favour. It just means you're not wasting energy railing against things you can't change. That your focus is not negative, but positive on the things you can control, the opportunities that are still open to you, and the life you have left to live and how you want to live it. Hope allows you to make changes that will help you, or others. I believe that being positive in this way improves our quality of life. Optimism doesn't necessarily do that. And I believe that it applies to those with serious or terminal illnesses, just as it applies to infertility and childlessness, and just as it applies to societal attitudes or political situations. 

Interestingly, I searched my blog for the word "optimism." I've used it under ten times in 15 years! But hope - the word "hope" comes up all the time. 550 times, to be exact. Even a post Optimism vs Pessimism really talks about the word and concept of hope! Maybe I shouldn't be quite so pedantic or rigid, though. Maybe I need to simply ask the question, "optimistic for what?" And that's where hope comes in.
 

 

15 years

This week, on Wednesday, in fact, my little blog turns fifteen years old. Fifteen years ago, I found I needed an outlet for thoughts about not having children, at a time when I was almost daily volunteering on the Ectopic Pregnancy Trust's messageboard, helping and reassuring women who were going through ectopic pregnancies, that they had a 90% chance that their next pregnancy would be in the right place. Ironically, as I think back, three of the five main volunteers over those years did not go on to have successful pregnancies, yet daily we reassured women that the odds were in their favour. It felt good to help them. But it also felt good to help those who were not going to be that lucky. They needed us. They needed me. 

There were no other No Kidding communities where I felt I could go. I searched blogs, and found Pamela's Silent Sorority blog, and Loribeth's Road Less Travelled. Both were women about my age and situation. I could related. But I didn't just want to read. After six years of volunteering, I had all those thoughts and growth of my own, and a lot of gleaned wisdom from my wonderful fellow volunteers, that I felt deserved to be continued to be voiced too. I was finally confident in how I felt about not having children living a No Kidding life that meant I wasn't yet ready just to put it all away and pretend it hadn't happened. 

15 years later, I'm still not ready to do that, although I know my posting has slowed down considerably! But I still have things to write about. I see a comment pop up in a completely different context, and see how it applies to those of us living No Kidding lives, and feel the urge to write about it. That's next week's post (accidentally published for this week until I reverted it to a draft when I discovered it was my 15 year anniversary).  

15 years later, No Kidding lives are talked about a bit more. But pronatalism/natalism is still dominant in our societies. Here in New Zealand, in my peer group, I am thankfully usually free of it. It makes my everyday life easier. I'm grateful for that. 15 years later, my name is now out there as someone who has spoken out for those who don't have children. I'm still not sure how I feel about that, but if I don't think about it, I'm fine! 

15 years later, I have real friends through this blogging community. Some have children. Many don't. We chat on blogs, or via zoom, on whatsapp, or other means. And of course I've been lucky to meet a few bloggers in person - Pamela, Klara, Lilly, and Lesley. I was going to say "in real life" but of course, over 15 years of interactions, I consider this "real life" too. Meeting in person is very special though, when we already know each other "inside out." I hope to meet more of you, here in NZ or on my travels.

Thanks for reading, being here, writing in parallel on your own blogs, being part of my No Kidding life. I'm not sure how much longer I will continue, as blogs seem to fall out of favour, and readers dwindle. But if I can reach one new person, it's worth continuing. And keeping you all in my life is important to me too. I'm not kidding. I love being part of an intelligent, thoughtful, supportive community. Thank you all.

 

Where do I belong?

Loribeth's post here, about a dream prompting questions about where she belongs, got me thinking. As she rightly said, many childless and perhaps even childfree people ask that question. 

I without doubt belong in New Zealand. Right now I belong in my city too, although my affections for it have plummeted these last few weeks, as our house has been battered with spring winds. I was caught thinking about where else I could live. I could move to the South Island where I have another sister and nieces and great-nephews, and one or two old friends. I have a fondness for that area. But my life has been very different, and so I don't think I belong there any more. There are other spots around the country that might be nice to live in, but where I might struggle to belong. A wealthy farming area has a charming wine village we love to visit but might be stifling to live in. Big cities can be thrilling but lonely. At one stage I belonged in Bangkok. I lived and worked there, loved being in an exciting environment, and felt very much at home amongst the Thais, even though I stuck out like a sore tall white thumb! But each time I return, I feel like I belong less and less. A friend has recently returned there, and feels that maybe she was trying to recapture a life that has passed. At one time we belonged, but do we still?

Even when I travel, I feel I belong - maybe as a tourist, rather than a local. But I'm not bothered by that. Sure, there might be some environments when I feel "out of place," but as long as I am engaged and exploring and enjoying myself, it's easy to feel comfortable, to feel as if I belong. Or perhaps I lie. Because when I travel too, on my own, I can feel terribly alone. Though I know it is possible to feel that without leaving home too.

But do I need to belong anywhere? I'm "at home" wherever I am if my husband is with me. We've been together for so long, he is my home. But I now know that's not going to be permanent. So I ask these questions anew. I think I prefer to belong to people rather than places. And that's the area I struggle. I need more people in my life. In the meantime, I have my sisters, nieces, and most importantly on a day to day basis, my friends who have also become my family. 

I remember after my ectopics and final resolution into a No Kidding life, I was desperate to travel and learn a language and spend time living somewhere else. I wanted to escape. I forgot, though, that I could not outrun my grief. I couldn't leave myself. My childlessness would follow me everywhere. 

I think maybe that's why we question where we belong. Because without children, we have always felt on the outside, as if we don't belong. Not in the way many parents feel they do - in their religions, schools, communities, and wider societies. We are always marginalised. I feel it less these days, as I mentioned here. But I still feel it. In all those places where parents feel validated, I feel othered. 

Belonging becomes something I've learned to do without. It doesn't mean I like it. But I've never quite thought about it this way before. As I read Loribeth's post, I jotted down my instinctive answer. I belong wherever I am. I belong in myself. Because that's who I need to survive. A healthy, contemplative, open and objective Mali with all her flaws. I take it all with me, and belonging comes with contentment, with acceptance, and with gratitude. I sometimes have to be reminded to find all those, but when prompted, it's possible. And then I can face the future. That's my answer. Wherever I am, I belong with me. Or perhaps, 

I am, therefore I belong.

 

 

Ageing out of Childless Perks

I'm a member of a social media group called "Childless Perks." This is not a group for the always childfree, but for those of us who might have tried to have or wanted children, and have had to adapt to the life we didn't know we would have. And in that we have looked for the joys in that life, the benefits, advantages, gifts, and perks. I've written a whole series on this, as many of my readers know, that you can find by clicking here. And I have always been determined to embrace the benefits of my life, at the same time facing the realities of not having children.

The thing is, many of the perks that I used to think about are largely irrelevant now that I am older. On a daily basis, my life is not much different to those friends of mine who have children. We all share in these gifts of life at our stage of life: 

• We can all sleep in whenever we like.
• We can all be spontaneous because we have no-one dependent on us (except for those of us who might be caring for elderly relatives) 
• We can all eat what we want, when we want, and we can drink wine and not have to care for children or pick up a teenager from a party/social outing etc afterwards
• We can all go to adults only destinations  
• We can all travel outside of school holidays (except for the poor, dedicated teachers among us), 
• We are all (or will soon be) free of financial burdens, such as school/university fees, sports expenses/music or dance lessons, etc.
• Et cetera 

So I see posts about these "perks" on this social media group, and I am speechless. Especially at the moment. I struggle to name a gift of my childless life that those with children don't share. Rather, it is the opposite.  

Right now, I see others who are ill being supported and wrapped in comfort by their children. (Even though I know they'd rather the children don't have to do it). 

I face a future on my own - not in the immediate short term, but certainly when I am older. So I need to prepare for that, without children to help, to comfort, to be in my life. (And yes, I know that is not guaranteed even if I had had children, but complete isolation from children is not common),

A now-single friend said to me recently that her children are her world. With her parents now gone, and in one sentence, she discounted everyone else in her life. Even though I know she loves and values her friends. But of course I know friends are always secondary - I know that from direct experience, but also because I am not a complete idiot! So I wonder, what does she think my world consists of? Yes, my husband, of course. And I acknowledge how lucky I am to have someone I like being with, and can still converse with about all sorts of things. But long term? Is my world empty? 

Anyway, as I'm writing this, I have discovered one perk that still applies! I was chatting with someone earlier, and I talked about something being romantic. She noted that she and her husband can only talk for about 15 minutes on a "romantic" date, and then start complaining or worrying about her (adult) kids. We've never been able to or felt we had to centre our entire conversation around children, and so my husband and I can quite happily go on a three-month trip, let alone a three-hour date, still have plenty to talk about, and not get tired of each other! 

So even when I feel quite gloomy, I am glad I can still find a gift in my childless life.

 

 

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.
 

 

 

 

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.

 

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.