Monday Miscellaneous: No Kidding - Otherhood, and On the Road

The last week has been interesting in a No Kidding sense. We travelled on Mother's Day, and so had booked a restaurant for dinner for Sunday evening. Although there were lots of family groups, some of them multi-generational, there was nothing triggering there. We relaxed, relieved after hours on the road, and enjoyed good food and service. No obsequious Mother's Day wishes to fob off. We were treated as just another customer, and I loved that. Without watching programmed TV or listening to programmed radio, it is all so much easier to avoid these days. Except of course the next day, when the North Americans were celebrating and I always forget and always have to get off social media!

Travelling in autumn, when the international tourists are off in warmer climes, the cruise ships have stopped calling, and the kids are all in school and university, is the best time! I loved the the chill in the air (even if it did feel as if I was cold for a week!), and more relaxed travel schedule. I mentioned to someone that that "sensible No Kidding folks" don't travel in summer when everyone else is on the road or in the vineyards, and then had to qualify it to ensure that I wasn't saying that the non-No Kidding are not sensible. Then I had to qualify that too to say that not all No Kidding folks can choose to be sensible and travel off-season (the lovely teachers, for example), and by that time my point was lost! Of course, those whose children are now living away from home can travel at this time too. That's part of what I love about it. We're not obviously the "couple without kids" when we are on holiday in May. We're a little older, which means we blend in more!

Of course I mentioned Otherhood to a few people we spent time with. I suggested they buy the book for a relative, who in recent years in their late 30s had tried to get pregnant. We had an interesting discussion, as I don't know their relative personally. "They don't talk about it," said my acquaintance. And so the two of us talked about the various reasons why they might not talk about it. Perhaps they're actually okay, perhaps they're worried about judgement, perhaps they're scared to be vulnerable and open when they're dealing with it all, perhaps they feel isolated and wish people would ask, perhaps they would just appreciate having their reality acknowledged, without pity or condescension. My acquaintance acknowledged - perhaps after reading my essay and the introduction to the book* - how isolating it must be, in the same way that assuming everyone is hetero/cis or of a particular race is isolating and dismissive. They said it as if it was a new realisation. That's a breakthrough, thanks to the book. And I really hope they do buy it for their relative. Or that it at least prompts a discussion at some stage. If that is the case, then being in the book has already been worthwhile. Awareness matters. It makes the world a more compassionate, considerate place.

Back on the 8th May, there was a radio interview with the editors of Otherhood. I get a mention** at the very end. You can read about it and listen to the interview here.  My sister and a friend heard it, and I got excited texts from them. (My 15 seconds of fame! lol) The launch event too was lovely, and a few readings covered the diversity of those of us in the Otherhood - for example, those whose religions affected them, teachers/foster mothers who were childfree by choice, etc. But they were all emotional. I took an Otherhood friend, who hasn't been involved in communities, messageboards, blogs etc in the way I have. I think it was a revelation to her too, that her reality is worth talking about. However happy she is with her Otherhood life, society isn't really that inclusive. She was a great help to me when I was going through losses, as she didn't value people's lives on whether or not they had kids. "Life is for enjoying," was her most radical statement to me. I remember being shocked, but have come to completely agree with her. (And for anyone who wants to disagree, enjoyment comes from many sources, including involvement with children, volunteering, helping others, etc. It is not of itself selfish!)

* I'm mentioned in the intro. It's thrilling, even if it makes me feel like the old lady of the group of contributors and editors! lol

** Not as Mali, of course. But if you read No Kidding in NZ regularly, you'll recognise my quote.

It won't happen to me

One of the joys of being young, for most of us, is that we think we are invincible. We are vaguely aware of hard things happening to other people, or in other countries, but we come through unscathed. We cannot imagine these bad things happening to us. We live, happily, in denial. Then, of course, something does happen. For many of us, infertility might be the first indication that bad things can happen to us. To anyone. We were all, no doubt, aware of infertility, or aware of the fact that we might not find the partner we want to have children with. But again, it seemed to be something that happens to others.

Very early this year, I heard or read (I can’t find the reference, I’m sorry) an expert talking about this. Even when bad things happen, our brains automatically reset to “it won’t happen to me.” I guess this is understandable, or we would all live in a state of hyper-vigilance, one that our bodies and brains are not built to endure. But hearing it made me nod, explaining perfectly how infertility seemed so unreal to me, even when I knew time was clicking on. It also explains the need we have to search for a reason why this happened, even when we know there is no reason why. (Which I’ve written about before, here and here.)

Perhaps New Zealand culture accentuates that feeling too. There’s a common phrase here that sums up a large part of our culture. “She’ll be right,” is the refrain, meaning that everything will turn out fine eventually. “No worries” is another version of it. It has both positive and negative connotations, depending on circumstances. So it is no wonder that so many of us don’t predict our own infertility. I’m sure there are other examples in other cultures. In the USA, perhaps, the belief in the great American dream implies that everything is within your reach, and discourages an attitude that maybe things won’t work out for you? I’d be interested to hear whether others have seen cultural beliefs that encourage them to ignore risks. Or am I really stretching things here?

Regardless, this view that bad things won’t happen to us colours many of our societies. Even when we begin to face the fact that infertility might mean we will not get the children we want, we are bombarded by messages from society, from family and friends, that tell us to stop worrying. “She’ll be right!” in fact. We’re told to have a positive attitude, or to keep trying, to try just one more time, or to “just adopt.” IVF is waved as a solution even when statistics don’t back this up. (Read Pamela’s latest piece about messages about IVF here.) We are urged to “never give up.” We’re often not allowed to even contemplate the fact that this IS happening to us, even when it is obvious to ourselves, if not to everyone else.

Anyway, since infertility and loss, I noticed a distinct change in the way I felt about my own vulnerability. Perhaps part of that is just age and experience, but I definitely feel my experience of infertility and pregnancy loss influenced my new feelings about risk. Before then, I used to travel the world on my own (for business) and felt confident and safe. Since then, I have been much more aware of things that could go wrong. I’ve had a diagnosis that have accentuated my feelings of vulnerability, and a niece was born with a genetic condition that has reinforced my view that the world is random (the odds of two healthy people with a rare gene falling in love and having a child, which even then has only a 25% chance of developing this condition is surely random), and so by definition, it is unfair. Since infertility and loss, I’ve felt my mortality much more keenly, and feel very far from invincible. I’ve lost my default setting.

No doubt, our brains’ default setting (that it “won't happen to me”) evolved in humans as part of a survival technique. After all, if you were going out to hunt for food, you had to believe that you would survive the hunt. However, that doesn’t help us now, either in infertility terms or with the onset of the COVID pandemic. Initially, my reaction was “I’ll be fine.” But then as it became more serious, I realised that I was not immune to risk (ie I am not in my healthy 20s or 30s, even though they are not immune either), that I often had more severe respiratory illness than my husband (for example), and that my history of being on the wrong side of the odds (a 1 in 400,000 chance of having a second interstitial ectopic, and 0.3% chance of development TN). As we learned more about COVID, I started to feel more vulnerable too, so felt very comfortable with a lockdown and taking safety precautions, and followed the rules assiduously.

What we are seeing in so many countries around the world is the prevalence of this belief that “it won’t happen to me.” Vulnerability is scary to feel, and it is easier to take the attitude that everything will be okay. I can relate to this. So many of us felt this way about our own fertility. But as we all sadly know, everything will not necessarily turn out as we want. I think knowing too that we don’t always get what we want has made it easier to accept that I am not travelling internationally this year, or – most likely – next year or maybe (gulp!) ever again. I’ve accepted that my life was forced to change at least once before. I can do it again. I may not like it. I may even have to grieve. But I know I’ll get through it.

With COVID – and fertility – the evidence now seems very clear. But too many people are denying the evidence. Some of that is the fault of politicians and messages that have been delivered. But some of it is just our brains resetting to our “it’ll be okay” default. As I once said to a friend about her soon-to-be-ex, when people stick their heads in the sand, all you can see are a$$holes. It made her laugh, which was much needed at the time. It made me feel better about my own vulnerability. Losing this default setting, accepting and not fighting the idea that “maybe it will in fact happen to us,” has actually made me feel more content with life, accept my mortality, and go with the flow a little more than I might have otherwise. It has helped me be a bit more adaptable.

Has your knowledge that anything CAN happen to us helped you in the current circumstances?

Societal change and the Childless

For the last five months, I’ve been writing mostly on my No Kidding 2020 Project, running through the emotions and actions of healing. I’ve enjoyed it, but rather got out of the habit of writing. There are a lot of topics for which I have half-written posts sitting in my files drafts, but my mind isn’t quite there yet.

I thought I’d comment briefly on Loribeth’s post last Monday about the cultural shaming of childlessness, and wondering if we would gradually see greater societal acceptance over the next 20-40 years in the way acceptance of the LGBTQ community has normalised. Go read her post here – as you can see, it got me thinking.

I like to think that in the future the No Kidding community will feel as accepted and unexceptional in society as those who are parents. But I see several possible scenarios, varying from the pessimistic to the more hopeful:

• The first is not hopeful. I think that today, compared to perhaps 40 years ago, there is sometimes more shame and judgement of people who don’t have children because there are “things we could do” to avoid our situation – eg, IVF/donor egg or sperm, surrogacy, or the old perennial, “you always adopt,” with reference to international adoptions* where there is seemingly an “unlimited supply” of babies. (We see these assumptions even within the infertility community, and we therefore know they are out there in wider society.) So with all this technology and all these options, when we come out of an infertility or other journey without children, when we had at one time hoped for them, is seen as failure, and either a lack of will, or perhaps insufficient finances, which brings its own judgement, given that societies often equate financial well-being with morality. The very availability of options means that there is less understanding of why some people cannot and do not have children. That’s not going away anytime soon.

• Thirty or forty years ago, when feminism was all about choice and opportunity, I was hopeful that it would mean that women wouldn’t be judged on whether they had children or not. But society has become even more pronatal – perhaps as a backlash to feminism, ensuring that women stay in “their place” and are less able to challenge the position of men. We’ve seen women who are childless take prominent positions and bear enormous criticism because they are not mothers. And our own PM Jacinda Ardern was criticised by choosing to become a mother whilst she was leading our country, though I hear little criticism along those lines these days, it might ramp up in the next few months as we approach our election in September. I don’t know how feminism is going to progress in the future, but the position of women in society is still difficult, is still subject to judgement and criticism and objectification. Whilst I have seen some positive developments over the last decades, I see a lot of stuff that has just been reinvented and recycled in different packaging to keep us in our place. So I’m not wildly hopeful that feminism will improve things for the childless.

• Our numbers are however growing. And we are speaking out more. So maybe we will reach a critical mass that sees us recognised as a legitimate group in society, with a recognised voice and specific interests. I hope so. It’s one of the reasons I continue to blog. But we have a way to go.

• Finally, I wonder if issues like climate change and environmental degradation will see a societal shift away from glorification of parenthood and towards an increasing recognition of the real impact of the world’s burgeoning population on the planet. Maybe society will recognise the dangers of unmitigated population increases and realise the value of the childless population, and the contribution we make towards the next generations. I don’t know. The risks to the planet of continued population growth are rarely uttered in any discussions I hear. I keep wondering how long commentators and politicians can continue to wilfully ignore it.

I realise I’ve come across as quite pessimistic. I'm not sure if that's representative of my views, or the fact it is Monday, and it's cold and rainy here!

What do you think?

* PS. It’s worth reading Lori LavenderLuz’s post and links on international adoption and the assumptions around it here, and Jess's post on the same topic here.

No Kidding 2020 Project: Day 17 - Speak

Gradually, as I grew into my No Kidding life, I began to speak. First, I would only speak to those who understood, those who had been through something similar, those who were safe. But I began to speak to others – sometimes it was to the most unexpected person. I could tell if someone was ready to be open-minded about my life, my losses, my situation. I often kept quiet around those who were closer to me, because they struggled to understand. But I began to speak.

I had always had an online outlet through the ectopic pregnancy site I joined, first as a member, and then later, anonymously, as a moderator and advisor on member forums. Only one or two of the dear friends I met on that site resolved without children, and so when I looked for another outlet, No Kidding in NZ was born. That led to other, much scarier, opportunities to speak in areas outside this community, using my own name rather than my pseudonym Mali. I could do this because I healded. I felt sufficiently removed from the grief that had gripped me in the early years to be able to speak about my situation, and to challenge the stereotypes and assumptions of others. It took a long time to find my voice, to overcome the negative voices of society that I had absorbed over a lifetime, and that had influenced my own negative voices. It took a real effort, and if I say so myself, a degree of courage confidence to use my voice.

Others find their voice much earlier. Some never feel the need, or just don't want to "go public." All that is fine. I remember a friend from the ectopic site saying that she would tell people at the bus-stop about ectopics if she had the opportunity, simply to raise awareness. I loved her for that. But I’m still not as open about the impact of not having children as she was. I’d like to be. But I also find that – for me – there’s a balance to be navigated. I don’t want to drive people away, or risk antagonising them, making them close their ears to my messages. After all, even those who try to be understanding will hear my truth through their own filters. And that’s never easy to dismantle. So I try to choose my moments. I speak here, and I speak up from time to time around family and friends and acquaintances who sometimes resort to false stereotypes or assumptions, and I speak more publicly when I can. Most importantly, I speak these truths first to myself. Maybe that's all some of us might need. I know I need to speak up more than that. As I've said before, I refuse to feel invisible, or diminished.

In finding my voice, and using it (but only when I choose), I find an authenticity that I might otherwise have lacked. Speaking our truths not only helps us raise awareness, and hopefully increase understanding of situations that are different to that of the majority, but also allows us to recognise and accept and show compassion to every part of ourselves. Feeling whole is wonderful, when infertility seems designed to make us feel that we are not whole. And there’s a peace and degree of contentment in that. I hope you will find this, or perhaps you have found it already. If so, I'm glad.