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

 

 

Childless but not friendless

I remember reading a childless blogger, years ago, writing that they didn’t think they would ever have good, close friends. I found that devastatingly sad. But it is a real example of how complicated friendships with parents can be when we don’t have children, and how many childless people feel isolated when their friendship group all has children around the same time. I’m lucky I haven’t experienced that. Yes, I’ve had friendships drift away as they have had children. I don’t think they ever understood the reason why, or knew how eager I was to be part of their lives and their kids’ lives, though they never really gave me the chance. In recent years, I’ve reclaimed these friendships, and I’m glad about that, but they have never been quite the same.

But fortunately, I have more friends who have children who have remained friends right through the thick of it. They’ve comforted me, made me laugh, distracted me, and included me in their lives. To an extent. My friends’ children were never the focus of our relationships or their sole topics of conversation – our history as friends and/or colleagues, our relationships, our work, our environments, what we were thinking and doing and reading, were always important to my parent friends too. I was always interested in what was going on in their lives, and that, of course, included their children. I was happy to talk about their worries about their kids, and celebrate their achievements. My friends never made me feel as if my opinions weren’t valued, or that my ear was less important simply because it was childless. And now, years later, our conversations are more likely to be about ageing parents than they are to be about their now-grown children.

My attitudes to friendship have changed too. I don’t need every single friend to understand what it is like being childless. But equally, it’s nice that some do. For years, I’ve known that, just as my husband can’t understand everything about me, and neither can my sisters, no one friend can possibly meet all my needs . Likewise, I can’t be all things to one person, so I don’t expect that from my friends. Accepting that makes friendships easier, and more relaxed. Best of all, it doesn’t limit the levels of intimacy possible in a close friendship.

Perhaps because I am childless, my friendships have always been with the person, rather than being second hand through our children, being thrust together through their friends, schools, and sports teams. So I have never particularly worried about whether friends have children or not. I take each person as they are, find connections in what we have in common, and look for other connections to fill the inevitable gaps. I know not everyone can, and some parents find it particularly hard. But that, I figure, is their loss, not mine. 

I guess I have a rule around friendship. We must both take pleasure in each other’s company. We must care about each other’s lives. And for me, that means that if you get to talk about your children or grandchildren, I get to talk about my life without children too, the good and the bad. What matters most are the realities of our lives, our connection, and our shared humanity. That’s universal, whether or not we have children.

 

World Childless Week and my No Kidding story

World Childless Week starts today. This is something we should celebrate, all of us. A week for thinking and writing about the road less travelled, the childless of our societies, for whatever reason. Our voices are so often forgotten, ignored, or dismissed, how fabulous is it that we have a week heralding our stories, talking about our lives? It is there to help us all feel less alone, and more understood.

There are so many interesting topics and discussions, webinars and workshops, that I for one won’t be able to keep up! Check the all out at the link above. These are the topics being covered by submissions this year:

• Monday 16 September - Our Stories
• Tuesday 17 September - Childless Person of Colour
• Wednesday 18 September- The Importance of Pets
• Thursday 19 September - Childless Friend or Foe
• Friday 20 September - No Kids? Do you want Mine.
• Saturday 21 September - We are Worthy
• Sunday 22 September - Moving Forwards

Head over to WCW’s Our Stories page and check out all the other stories there.

As I said last year, this entire blog is my story – in much detail! It shows my origins, and the development of my thoughts. I even have a separate page titled My Story that includes a piece written in 2011 for the Huffington Post, and an update a decade or so later. I’ve repeated aspects of my story in many guises over the last two decades and more, most recently in the book Otherhood. So once again, I have decided not to write a submission this year. It's all here for you already. There’s only so much repetition that people can cope with, after all!

What is most important is the knowledge that my story didn’t end on the day when I knew I would never have children. Far from it! That’s when My No Kidding Story truly began. When I had to truly find out who I was, and how to enjoy life. How to truly live it, regardless of the hand I was dealt, with growth, with compassion, with love and joy.

And so I live my life. I accept what is, and what is not. I embrace the good things – and there are plenty – and remember the losses that got me where I am today. I think about the future – with determination and resolve, rather than with fear and trepidation. I relish the friendships and wisdom that have resulted. As I’ve said before, and will say again, I am someone who is, simply, enough. That knowledge is such a gift.