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.

 

The rusty sword of spring

Thirteen years ago, I wrote my first ever post on No Kidding in NZ. It was about November, and titled “Double-edged Sword of Spring.” It’s worth repeating here:

“In New Zealand, November means spring. Officially, September or October are spring, but they are unreliable months, when winter still has us in its grip, teasing and taunting us with the occasional fine day, with the bloom of flowers, with pink blossoms and buds turning into delicate, pale green leaves on the willow trees that edge the Hutt River. September and October still have the power to force us back into our winter coats, to wear scarves and gloves. This year was particularly cruel, as we watched a late snowstorm in the south of the country arrive in September, bringing the sheep farming industry to its knees, its icy ferocity killing thousands of newborn lambs.

But by November hope has returned. Even though there might still be a chilly bite in the wind, the sun warms, and we begin to believe that warm temperatures will return, that long holidays, barbecues, trips to the beach, swimming, and the end of a rough year are almost within reach.

November sees hope for the future for most New Zealanders. November celebrates new life. But for me, November signals a different time. It signals a season of memories. Memories of loss, of disappointment, of the loss of innocence, of fear for the future, and of coming to terms with my own mortality. And each year, although sharp pain has faded, although acceptance and enjoyment in life has returned, each year we remember the pain.

In my house in New Zealand, even seven years later, November is a double-edged sword.”

It’s not now seven years later, however. Now, it is 20 years later. And November is no longer a double-edged sword. The sword edges are dulled, and it is rusting away. I don’t get the same dread thinking about the season of memories of loss, of hospitalisations, of pain. In fact, I only remembered that it was November in that way by happening on my first ever post in my word document of drafts and posts. Time heals. It really does. Time eases memories, and takes the sting out of them.

(That’s not to say that there is never any sting. I felt tears prick my eyes after reading something else, earlier, about “the one who was missing” and the simple, “ah, mate” comment I got from a blogger. It was unexpected indeed.)

But these days, when I think of November, I'm not thinking about pain. (Well, apart from cursing the spring winds that plague me!) In fact, now I’m thinking about scheduling in dentist and doctor appointments, dinners with friends, spring cleaning, and Christmas shopping. Sure, I will think about what was lost as anniversaries come up. But with remembrance, and love, and even gratitude. And right now, I’m thinking about happy events (well, mostly), warmer weather, activity, and hoping for some accomplishments. I’m enjoying and anticipating life. That’s the joy I probably didn’t expect when I wrote that first post.

Note: After that first post, I discovered that Loribeth also has a series of November posts.

 

#MicroblogMondays Quote: Choosing not to worry

My husband can do this; I think many men can. I remember telling him how much I wanted to be able to do this. The idea of saying “I choose not to worry” was, especially when I was in the midst of loss and infertility, completely unfathomable.

I learned though that it was possible to do this when I stopped imagining myself as a mother, when I knew thinking and worrying would achieve nothing but bring me pain. I’m better at it now, but still not a master. But I can tell my brain, sometimes, to put something away till later. I call that progress.

No more room for excuses

Tomorrow will be six weeks since my surgery.  Whilst I’m still under the care of my surgeon, and will be for a few more weeks until some issues are resolved, today I was cleared to start some gentle exercise, and resume most normal activities.

I have to say, I feel alternately exhilarated and terrified.  Both for the same reason.  Because now (or at least in a month or two) there is no longer any room for excuses.  The health issues that required me to have surgery have influenced my life over the last few years, and very intensely since we returned from our extended overseas travels late last year.  They have restricted my life in a number of ways, and this resulted in a loss of confidence and a mental block when looking at the future.  

But I'm pleased to report that right now I feel free, unencumbered, and enthusiastic about the future.  I remember that this is also how I felt years ago when I realised that I was enjoying life without kids. I realised that I was feeling professionally challenged and satisfied, personally buoyed by accomplishments and skills and feedback as a volunteer, and as a result, personally content with all that was going on in my life.

My aim is to get back to that place.  And the difference is that this time, I don’t have to overcome grief and self-doubt to do it.  … OK, maybe a little self-doubt, but that’s only natural isn't it?

An aperitivo with an Italian bebè

Last week we went out for an aperitivo (drink) with our landlords.  I was looking forward to meeting them properly, and thought they might know some interesting places to go.  Sabina mentioned in her email that they have a three-month old baby.  I could tell from the gushing emails from Sabina that she was a head-over-heels-in-love-with-her-baby mother.  She was so excited, she said, to introduce us to her baby.

I was less excited.  I wasn't dreading it, by any means.  I just hoped it wasn't going to be one of those awkward occasions.  You know, the old "expect the worst" feelings we always seem to have around events like this.  (More accurately, it should be "expect the worst, and makes yourself feel horrible in the process.") Anyway, I shouldn't have done that.  Because anticipating the worst doesn't actually help.  And besides, it was fine.

Our landlords were very nice, the baby was beautiful and happy and calm the entire time, and the only time it was mentioned that we didn't have children was when I volunteered the fact.  It was in fact a very pleasant evening (despite the humidity and heat), and I almost found myself wishing I'd asked if I could hold the baby.  Just for fun.  Not to torture myself.  Not to imagine what it would have been like to have had my own.  No.  Just for fun.  That's how good it was.

And the only reason I write about it here, is to provide evidence that it does get easier.  (Yes, I'm ten years on, and so I imagine a lot of people would roll their eyes and say "about time!"  But that's another post.)  I know it might often seem that it is easy for me to say it.  But I think when we recount real life encounters where we feel fine afterwards, it counts as actual evidence.  And so I hope it helps you too.

A small PS.  Sabina and I communicated via email.  She wasn't confident with her English, and I wasn't confident with my Italian.  So I'd double-check what she was saying with Google Translate.  The name of her baby - which is a beautiful name I think - always translated as "detrimental."  I hope she never discovers that particular fact.