Why we didn't adopt

Klara recently shared the reasons why she and her husband chose not to adopt, and invited other no kidding bloggers to do the same. Loribeth and BentNotBroken have done so, and Savannah has also shared her adoption story in a series of moving posts. I've had a post drafted for some time, and have been tossing up about how much to say. Because it’s not just my story. So I’ve opted for the short version. Here goes ...

There were almost insurmountable practical barriers to adoption:

• Domestic adoption in New Zealand is rare these days.
• Because of this, competition is stiff. And as older parents, chances we would have been chosen were slim.
• International adoptions are very expensive, and can take a long time to finalise. We didn’t have time to spare.

There were also other issues that were complicated to resolve:

• We were both feeling our age. Did we want to become new parents at this stage? Would it be fair to the child?
• Complicated feelings towards other issues, including adopting older children (would we be able to give these children what they needed?), open adoptions (I support these but they bring their own challenges), and international adoptions (having lived in Asia, and with part-Asian nieces and nephews, we were comfortable with the idea of having an Asian child, but conflicted about some of the other ethical considerations).
• We were tired and demoralised.
• General misgivings/other issues.

Practically the barriers were high. Coupled with other issues, the wall was too high to climb together. These are the complicated issues that the “just adopt” brigade don’t think about or discuss. Our marriage, a partnership built over many years and forged stronger through our joint loss and grief, and our confusion over adoption, would - we knew - survive this. It would survive simply because we considered each other’s feelings, but were honest about our own. Our knowledge that we would be okay gave us further confidence not to rush into something that might not be the right decision. As time passed, we became more and more comfortable with leaving it be.

You could always ...

I'm shocked to see it has been so long since I posted.  My sister and six-year-old niece came to visit for six days, so that will be my excuse.  And as of this morning, I now have their cold, but I'm not using that as an excuse.  It does remind me though that by not having children, who pick up everything going, we do stay a lot healthier!

We had a lovely time together (I blogged about it here), despite the miserable (but expected) midwinter weather, which meant that some of our planned trips (the zoo, the bird sanctuary, etc) did not come off.  It did mean that our time was more relaxed, and we had more time to get to know each other. I played many games of snakes and ladders, and baked chocolate chip cookies, and watched movies, and made pancakes for breakfast, and got lots of cuddles.

As I was giving my niece a big hug ... another one ... I told her that I needed to give her lots of hugs because I don't have a little girl, and I don't see her often enough.

"You could always adopt one!" she declared, as she escaped from my clutches and raced off to do the next exciting thing.  I shrugged, and laughed.  I mean, what was there to say?

Infertility's Waiting Room

We do a lot of waiting when we are infertile or have suffered loss.  Waiting for the right time for a start.  Then waiting every month to see if we're pregnant.  And even that waiting is filled with waiting – waiting for our fertile days, for ovulation, for the days when we can realistically test to see if this month was the one.  Then we wait to be referred to a specialist, wait for appointments, for cycles to begin, to get lab results, to inject, to get more lab results, to collect, to fertilise, to grow, to transfer, to test, to try again.  Then for some there is other waiting - to see beta results rise, to reach viability, to give birth.  Or for approval, a match, a birth mother, a court date.  Frequently, there is waiting for the financial resources we need to support all the other waiting.

Yes, we spend a lot of time in the waiting rooms of infertility.  And in that waiting room, there are a number of doors.  The door we enter through immediately locks behind us, and we can never pass back through it again.  We are changed, and if we are honest, the totality of the life behind that door is lost to us.  Often we leave our innocence and hope and faith and trust in a fair world behind that door. The fact that this door remains closed surprises many.  They think they will be able to go back through it, and get back to “normal” as if they never left.  They especially expect this if they get what they came for.  It is a shock to many to find that it isn't that easy; to find that what brought us to the waiting room stays with us.

So we sit in the waiting room of infertility, and we wait.  Some of us run around and try all the tools available to us in the room, over and over again, and some are more choosy for a myriad reasons.  Some too don’t have the means (financial, medical, social, emotional) to try all the tools. But ultimately, waiting is what we all do there.

And as we wait, we look at the other doors with exit signs.  One of those doors is brightly painted, is festooned with flowers and balloons, and has flashing lights around it.  When that door opens, a glow of light beams through, and we hear cheers and laughter and the popping of corks when we see one of our number walk through it.  We feel the warmth of a large group waiting to welcome us in.  This is the door we want to go through.  This is why we’re in the waiting room.

We don't see past the initial lights and music though.  We don’t want to.  We don’t see that through this door there are still clouds and sadness and hard work and jangling alarms and stress and arguments and guilt and worry.  We don’t want to, because it might make us question everything we are going through, back in the waiting room.  We want to believe.  We want the holy grail.  So we just see and imagine the sunshine and friends and family, all painted in happily ever after.  This means that, when they get through the door, some are surprised that they still carry with them the fears and sensitivities and anxiety (sometimes more) that built up in the waiting room.  That life still has its downs as well as its ups.  Thankfully, though, there are people who write about this, opening the door a crack further for those still in the waiting room, helping them understand.

Back in the waiting room we see another door.  It is more subdued than the first door, but adorned with flowering bushes and lush ferns, and when we see women leave through it, we also hear applause and glasses clinking and the laughter of children.  It is muted, there has been grief and struggle to get to this stage, but still there is happiness and warmth on the other side, and initially it seems a deceptively easy door to walk through.

We don't see the tests we might have to go through once we choose to walk through that door, or all the twists and turns on that path.  From our seat in the waiting room, we only see the portraits of happy families on the walls as they open the door.  We don't see the same joys that are through the first door, but we assume and hope that they will be there.  And we have a barrage of people outside the waiting room urging us to take this door, reminding us that this door is always an option.  They too don't see or understand the twists and turns of this door, or how difficult it can be to go through it, or how difficult it might be on the other side, how complicated it can be, the loss that has occurred for the room to exist at all.  They think it is simply a matter of just doing it - opening the door and going through.  If only that were the case.

Then there is a third door.  Most of the seats in the waiting room face away from this door.  It is hidden in a corner, discreet, unattractive, certainly unadorned.  The pot plants around it are dusty and drooping, neglected, in need of some tender loving care.  For some of our time in the waiting room, we might not even notice this door, because we are convinced that we're going through the door surrounded by light.

But then one day we see it (some sooner than others).  And once we've seen it, we can't ignore it ever again.  It looms large in our peripheral vision, and as we spend more and more time in the waiting room, it grows and takes on an ominous hue.  When the door opens for a woman to walk through, often she is weeping.   These are the women who have tried all the options and used all the tools in the waiting room, or they are the ones who couldn’t reach some of those tools, or who collapsed on the floor in exhaustion, unable to get up and try again. We watch them grieve, and go through that door in varying states.  Sometimes they go willingly, accepting that this is their only option, some with a dejected slump, some determinedly thrusting their shoulders back and holding their heads high, with sadness in their eyes.  Sometimes they are pushed through the door, kicking and screaming, trying to cling on to their waiting room seat with its view of the other two doors.  

And when they open this last door, all we can see from the waiting room is darkness.  There are no bells and music and popping of corks going through this door.  When the door opens, a chill air rushes into the waiting room, and those seated there recoil, huddling into themselves, pulling their hope around them in comfort, trying to ignore the fear that has taken root and grows within.  They see darkness through that door, and they believe that all the darkness and despair they feel in the waiting room comes from this door.  It must be avoided at all costs.

What most people don’t see though is that people who stand to walk through any of those doors stand straighter as they leave the waiting room. Because that is where the darkness and despair live and thrive.  Those still in the waiting room don’t see the light behind this door, because the light is hidden by a dark screen, a healing screen that eventually we all manage to walk through. The waiting don’t see the women there shed their burdens, feel lighter and become more alive.  They can only see the darkness.  They are simply unable to imagine there is any light behind that door. They don’t hear the throngs welcoming us in, because there are fewer people behind that door and their welcome is more muted.  Many of them might be busy doing different things, but they are there, and when we encounter them they are welcoming and compassionate and thoughtful.

And once through that door, once through the difficult maze of dark reconciliation, the sun comes out, and hope and inspiration bloom.  Yes, there are difficulties and sadness through this door, as there are through each of the doors.  But there is also sunshine and light, the scent of summer flowers, and - when I went through at least - the sound of champagne glasses being filled on the decks of a ship in the Aegean.

But all this is largely unknown to those who sit in the waiting room of infertility.  They can't see any of this.   And that's why I write.  To offer a view further through that last door, as others* offer different views further through the other doors. To let people in the waiting room know that whichever door you open, there will be happiness and sadness and wonderful surprises. And that hidden door, the one that opens in your worst nightmares?  I hope that here I can paint this door in happy colours and nurture the plants around it to make it less scary.  I want to bring it out of the shadows and bathe it in light.  

* and many more

Hear me, that's all I ask

I don't often talk about infertility in my everyday life.  It's never been a major factor in any of my relationships.  I've received my support on-line, and have real, lasting and deep relationships as a result.  But my daily relationships with friends and family are all about us, what we are doing, who we are, and not about who we are not.  So it's not as if I feel I am hiding anything.  It simply increasingly isn't a factor.

However, as the years go on, I also feel more able to raise the issue of infertility, or life without kids.  If, in a conversation, something springs to mind, then I am much more liable to comment on it now, then ten years ago, when I was going through so much grief.  I feel free to comment now, in the same way my friends feel free to comment on their lives as parents, or professionals, or travellers, or runners or photographers.  So the other night, when I met some friends, we were chatting about life ... and death.  I casually mentioned that making a Will when you don't have kids raises all sorts of issues that parents generally don't face.  It's complicated.  And I got a strange reaction from one of the women.  She shook her head and said, "you could still always adopt, you know."  I was surprised.  This was a leap from the "I'm making my Will" topic of conversation.  And besides, "I'm 50!" I protested, shocked to still hear this at my age.  "Still, there are lots of children in the world," she went on.  I stopped the proud new grandmother there.  I explained the difficulties in adopting in New Zealand, at any age, and especially now at my age.  She protested, "I meant children overseas."  I explained too that I am probably more aware than any of us of the children overseas who could be adopted, but that all overseas adoptions still have to be approved by New Zealand authorities.  And whilst it might be possible to go through this at our age, it was also very expensive, and anyway, I hadn't been complaining.  The question of adoption was not on the table. Our life is our life, and we're both at peace with it.

My friend nodded, and we changed the subject.  To be fair to her, she accepted everything I said, accepted that it might never have been an option (and didn't pry about why or why not), and admitted she knew nothing about adoption in New Zealand.  She was graceful and not combative.  It was a minor incident in the scheme of things.  But this, and then a subsequent discussion - about silly things that left me feeling as if I wasn't allowed any of my opinions - left me feeling beaten and exhausted and not a little upset later that night.  I thought I'd recover once I got home, but it has stayed with me for days.  I would have dismissed this from many people, shrugged it off and got over it.  But I was surprised I got these reactions from this particular person.  Surprised, and puzzled.  And I still am.

In thinking about this, I've realised exactly what it is that I dislike about the "just adopt" argument.  Put simply, it entirely dismisses the legitimacy of my decisions, and the life I'm living.  It has absolutely nothing to do with the issue of adoption.  It has everything to do with the feeling that I can't talk about not having kids without feeling accused (directly, indirectly, or tacitly) of complaining.  How did a simple mention of the complications of making a Will (eg having to consider the reactions and personalities of siblings and nieces and nephews) turn into a complaint about my life?  How did my simple comments elicit the "just adopt and stop complaining" response?

I realised later that I'd had a similar reaction last week from the same woman, when we'd talked about the phenomenon of reticular memory, and I'd thrown in an infertile reference at the same time as I talked about cancer sufferers and Italy-bound travellers.  The combination of the two events is what upset me.  As if the mere mention of infertility was unacceptable conversation.  That it was seen as bemoaning my fate, when I should clearly be living stoically and silently and invisibly.

That is what upset me.  That my reality, living life without children, was not heard or legitimised, but instead dismissed and denied.  (And yes, I'll say now that the other friend in the conversation probably never even noticed any of this, and has never made me feel that way.)  And yes, I'm sensitive on this issue.  But I don't think I'm over-sensitive.  After all, the truth is that I'd sat there with my friends and happily and willingly engaged in conversation about their children and new grand-children.  And yet I felt attacked when I made a simple reference to what was going on in my life.  So why was their (her) reality more acceptable conversation than my own?

Nature/nurture and general ignorance

Mel's post prompted me to think about how other people view adoption.  On the one hand, we are barraged with comments along the lines of "just adopt."  On the other hand, we have people who make judgements and view children and relationships differently if they know they are adopted.  I suspect there are family members who feel that way about donor eggs too.  I wrote this post in 2009, and think it's worth repeating here.  I'll have more to say at the end.  Here it is:

Over the last few months, I’ve found myself frustrated over comments from people about members of their family. They have used family with quotation marks – “family” because they have included people in it who have been adopted. (Spouses were also not included as “family” but that in itself has not bothered me). Every conversation about the wider family has included a variation on the phrase “but of course don’t forget that J and D are adopted.”   I know that these people have strong feelings about this, and have included provision in their will for grandchildren “of natural issue” only.

It brought me to that age old question, what makes a family? Is it the years spent together, the shared experiences, love, arguments, traditions? Remembering the Christmases when Uncle Robin drank too much, or Auntie Evelyn’s beautifully-iced Christmas cake, or Yvonne and James wrestling, or the games of French Cricket on the lawn? Or is it simply the shared blood, the shared DNA, that ties us? The fact that we can look around and see that we share the Rose hips, or the R noses, or that I see my mouth on my nieces’ faces.

And how important is that blood? It is only important in consciousness. If you know that someone doesn’t share your DNA, do you look at them differently, in that awareness? If you are not aware of the lack of any genetic connections, wouldn’t you love them as deeply? Don’t people manage to find or imagine physical or emotional similarities to ensure they’re included in the family? Aren’t family trees full of children who don’t have the fathers that are recorded or assumed, coming from different blood? Or these days, family trees will include children from donor eggs or sperm, whose genetic links are to another family tree entirely, but who have been loved and raised through this one, whether the wider family is aware or not that they don’t share DNA? Aren’t, too, family trees empty of those who should be there, the children who are lost to that branch, unacknowledged because of indiscretions, shame and stigma, or simply lack of knowledge of their existence?  So why should these blood connections seem to be so important? And why do I mind so much that they are?

I suspect that this has hit me hard on a personal level, because our particular branch of the family tree ends with us. Adoption or other alternatives were always a possibility for us, not having any children of “natural issue.” I am furious at the thought that if I had adopted, people would view my children differently to those of my sisters, or of my husband’s brothers. The fact that they would be seen as second class citizens, not true members of the family. Would they feel the difference? Would it scar them? It makes me wonder whether child J and D, mentioned in the first paragraph, are aware of how some members of their family see them. I hope upon hope that they are not.

So why is it that I still flinch when I think of the bare, lonely branch on a family tree that ends with my husband and I? Why should it matter? Whilst I mostly feel accepting of my life without children, of my death and beyond, it does annoy me that this still has emotional power over me. Is it the desire for some form of immortality that makes blood so important? And isn’t that based on a deep-seated fear of being forgotten, a fear of ending? And isn’t that based on a feeling that you have not been enough in this life? Done enough? Been loved enough and loved enough right back? Is it based on a fear that we have not made a difference in someone’s life? Or that we have not changed the world after all?

Perhaps I just need to get over myself. We all need to get over ourselves. Simply being here has changed the world, and made it a better place. A kind word can make all the difference to the right person on the right day. Delight in someone’s writing, their work, their smile, their garden. Loving and being loved, whether by family or friends, near or far. These are not unimportant things. They should be, and are, enough.

The person I referred to in that post is my father-in-law.  Yes, I obviously harbour a deep resentment towards him as a result of these comments!  The ridiculous thing is that he is so ignorant of reproductive technologies that there are some grandchildren who could easily be the wonderful result of IVF or donor egg/sperm.  I don't know, and as I said here, it's not my business.  He loves them (as do I) - they are good students, very active, athletically-talented, and fun kids.  Everything he wants in grandchildren.  And that's all that matters.

What they said ...

I have to say that when I agreed to have my piece published on The Huffington Post, I thought about who might see it, but I didn’t really think about the comments.  I didn’t think I was getting any – my piece wasn’t on the iPad version (sob, I would have been so chuffed to read it there) – and so I didn’t look till yesterday.  After Kate’s comment on my previous post suggesting I'd be better off hitting my head against a brick wall, I braced myself, and went in.

They were all there - positive, negative, off the topic, angry, and just plain nuts.  It was weird seeing myself referred to as “the gal” or simply “she.”  Especially as my mother was a strict believer in the “She’s the cat’s mother” rule.  It was weird that people had taken the time and effort to comment on something I had written, on an international news/magazine site.  I mean, blog commenting is different; we develop more of a personal relationship on a blog, and there is more of a conversation.  So reading the comments made me feel as if I was eavesdropping on a bunch of people talking about me. 

Quite a number had missed my point.  I don’t feel guilty for not being able to have children.  I did (but don’t any more) feel guilty for feeling happy and enjoying my life without children, when I had wanted to be a mother so much, and had grieved my pregnancy losses, and the end of my fertility, so very much.  They also obviously thought I was much younger than I actually am - not realising that my insight (or happiness) didn't come over night!

No one, i repeat no one should ever feel obligated to have children, or feel any guilt over not having children.

Some people just don't want to have kids. If you are one of those people, why grieve the loss of something you didn't want to start with?

There were the meant-to-be-supportive, vehemently child-free:

I choose not to over populate this earth with drooling little crumb crunchers and Im perfectly happy. There is adoption for the desperate, and there are many, many puppies that need good homes. No grieving needed.  (Actually, I'm a cat person).

... if I couldn’t have children I’d throw a party!

There were the adopters (with many variations on the theme):

I am not sure that it seems she really wants children.  Adoption seems obvious.

I'll never understand what is wrong with adoption?  (Fortunately many commenters pointed out the many barriers to adoption).

Adopt a child and do some real good.

There was the one “just try surrogacy”:

Actually, before age set in ectopic pregnancy is easily solved by IVF  ... carried by surrogates.  (The commenter wanted me to go to India for this!)

There were the mean or smug:

Of course, she's infertile.  She's old.  Can't have your cake and eat it too, sweetheart.  (Sweetheart?!)

I am so sorry but part of this problem is that woman are falsely given this "you can have it all" line which we clearly can not.  (No kidding?  I do agree with this - I certainly was fed that in the 1980s.  But I could have done without the smug, I know best, tone of voice.)

We can not wait until our mid to late 30's to start thinking about kids. Otherwise you see this. (Ditto above).

You are lucky your man did not leave you.  (I suspect this was written by a woman who had been left - but it still jarred.)

And the nastiest, probably from someone who calls herself a Christian:

Thank you God for not allowing this person to bring life into this world. 

For a while there I felt indignant.  These people didn’t know why we didn’t adopt, they know nothing about me other than that article, and many of them didn’t really understand my point.  But, as I explained to my husband who said I should reply, these people would never understand.  They didn’t want to understand, which is precisely why they were commenting.  In fact, I was really surprised to find myself laughing and rolling my eyes at these comments.  They didn’t hurt.  Even the last one.  (Well, okay, it does irk ... just a bit!)

But the positive comments were wonderful, and made me smile.  They include:

Why the guilt over one's strength and one's ability to re-balance? 

Any loss is difficult. For me, it was the loss of a husband when my children were young. I remarried, and had periods of time that I felt guilty because I was happy again.

I applaud her for being honest and sharing her innermost feelings regarding her personal experience.

I could have written this article, because it captures my thoughts exactly.

Thanks for sharing your grief.  It helped me.  (From an infertile man, this moved me unexpectedly.)

God Bless all of us women for being women.  ... God bless us to be what we want.

...if we do not become mothers, that does not lessen our worth as women in any way.  (This commenter must have read Nicole's fantastic article a few days earlier!)

 

Sounds like you're a person with her head screwed on straight. Continued happiness!

This woman to me would be a joy and a treasure.  (Either a lonely or horny or both  man.  I made a point of passing this one on to my husband.  Just to make sure he remembered how much of a a joy and a treasure I really am!)

Thank you for this article, for your honesty and your thoughts. This is a wonderful attitude.

It is wonderful to read a post reminding people that you can have a happy ending even if this means you did not get to be a parent.  (Yes, yes, yes!)

Reading these comments reinforced exactly why I blog, and why I am feeling motivated to write more widely about the subject.  To know that I had inadvertently helped some complete strangers was amazing.  The examples above, and the wonderful wonderful support I’ve received here on this blog from you all, made this rather scary “coming out” venture worthwhile.  

And at times, especially after weeks like this, it does feel  as if I'm "having my cake and eating it too" - it's just a different cake, sweetheart!

Just Adopt

A new blogger, Beef Princess at Simply Not Conceivable, has joined our community.  I love the by-line to her blog:

because not everyone can have children, but they can still have a life.

This week she got me thinking, and I wanted to respond.  And if, in doing so, I direct some readers to her blog, all the better.

She raised the question of adoption.  I’ve not addressed this issue yet here, though I plan to at some stage.  I  loved her comment that  Most people won’t have to try so hard to have kids.  They will never have to answer that question.  I think that’s what makes me so angry about this question, this assumption from the fertiles that we can “just” adopt. It  is so easy for them to blithely say, “we would have adopted if we couldn’t have children.”  But such comments are meaningless unless they have been through infertility, perhaps spent all their disposable income on fertility treatments, exhausted themselves emotionally (as Beef Princess points out) through years of disappointment and grief, put their relationship under huge pressure, and perhaps dealt with pregnancy losses or still-births.”  Try saying “just adopt” and mean it after all that.  We know it isn’t that easy. And I wish others did too.