The Great Parent-No Kidding Divide

And a lesson in restraint

Spending two weeks with someone with kids can take its toll. Especially when they focus on things that affect them, display a complete ignorance of things that affect us, and it seems, have absolutely no desire to understand. Mainly, this manifests in the parent/no kidding divide. Of course! Are you surprised?

They implied that they had a greater understanding that “life is precious” because they had a pregnancy loss, premature twins, and were parents. Even when I pointed out that I had grieved our losses, they still didn’t in any way ask, show interest, or even any compassion. Because we don’t have kids, they think we don’t understand. Or that we are always going to agree with them.

They continually talked about legacy, meaning both biological legacy and other aspects of legacy. It struck me that it was all about recognition, about being remembered, rather than about their impact on other people. I think people without children are forced to focus on the second, on how we affect other people and what legacy we might leave with them, rather than whether we are recognised for it. Because for me, recognition is irrelevant, as within a few generations (or as few as one generation) we will be forgotten, just names on a family tree on a branch that ended. But maybe a kindness or some wisdom or role modelling will be passed on, and that is our legacy. It's a legacy that I hope I will have.

I heard a lot about how “sentimental” this parent was about their childhood, and maybe their parents. I think I should get a medal for NOT saying “you weren’t sentimental enough to come back more regularly!” Of course, they didn’t need to, and they used their children (as they still do, even though the children are grown) as an excuse.

I also heard a lot about how it is so very hard for a parent to see their child in pain. I don’t think I rolled my eyes, though the urge was strong. Not because I don’t believe them. Of course it is hard for a parent to see their child in pain. Any normal human finds it hard to see anyone vulnerable in pain, especially someone you love. I found it awfully hard to see my parents and parents-in-law in pain, both physical and medical. But really, were WE the right people to say those words to us, in that way?

We had to listen to an extended discussion of the birth of their children. (Over 20 years ago!) The children were premature, so it was scary, and I understand that. And I initially handled it well. But as they went into all the details, and expressed how wonderful it was to touch the babies and take them home, and as they talked about breastfeeding, etc, the scars of my wounds were being pressed over and over again, and it was harder and harder to take.

I restrained myself so often. You should be proud of me! I did not say that I knew exactly how old a niece was because she was three months old and visiting when I was losing my first pregnancy. I did not ask too much about someone we all know because I suspect (though I may be wrong) that IVF and donor egg may have been involved, and I don’t think it’s any of my business. I didn't equate our losses with theirs, or point out that we had also been through some of these things, or always put an opposing point of view. I, of course, found it easier to talk about old age than about the vulnerabilities of infertility and loss. Even though they know something about that. I often avoided wading into a compassionless quagmire simply to protect myself. And I gave myself permission to do that.

Sometimes, though, I very matter-of-factly pointed out our situation without children, and that some of their assumptions were wrong. I did it only when it seemed appropriate or there was an opportunity in the conversation, not aggressively, and tried to keep it open and honest, using our experience as the base example. But for the most part, I tolerated it all. I was in a marathon, and didn’t want to cause any more tension. And the worst thing is that I probably would not have made any difference if I had explained this.

I wasn’t expecting understanding, or even compassion. I usually don’t. Of course, I didn’t receive any either. So it all made me wonder if they honestly think we never felt, and don’t feel, any pain over what we have lost. That our lives aren't as important as theirs. Or if they don’t even see that we have lost anything, because (to quote another friend) “we never had anything to lose?” The answer is both, I think. It made me wonder too how many parents feel and think like this? Sure, this particular person may be especially lacking in compassion and self-awareness, and many other parents with kids don’t always make me feel like this. Some are wonderfully compassionate and open to learning about our experiences. But sadly, I suspect these views and discussions are very indicative of the majority of our fellow humans. As a result, I will admit to feeling rather bruised from this encounter.

Losses and last resorts

When I was undergoing investigations and treatment for one of my ectopic pregnancies (I cannot recall which), at the entrance to the hospital car park, one or two anti-abortionists waved signs and shouted at cars and visitors to the hospital. Ectopic pregnancies are not viable, they are dangerous, and can and do lead to maternal death. At the time, I was given a standard ectopic pregnancy medication, methotrexate, to end the pregnancy. Even the Catholic Church acknowledges that ectopics require treatment, and are never viable. But every time I entered the hospital, I wondered what vitriol would be hurled my way if they knew what treatment I was given. But they didn't make me feel guilty. I felt guilty enough that my body had not worked properly, and that I had no choice. That the baby I had been ready to welcome would never in fact make it. No, I felt nothing but anger towards these protestors who were deliberately hurting women (and men) like me who had no choice. And to take it further, they were hurting women (and men) who felt that they had no choice, for whatever reason, and so had to exercise choice.

Enduring pregnancy losses, and infertility, and living a life without children, has only made me feel even stronger about this. Just as I say that many of us walking the No Kidding paths had no choice in the matter, even as others mistakenly tell us we chose to live childfree, it is the same for women seeking abortions. So much about abortion is that the women making the decision have no choice - so many women have missed the opportunity to have any other choices because of financial situations, abusive relationships, failing contraception, illness (physical or mental), poor education, ignorance, foetal abnormalities, etc etc. It's a last resort. A last resort that shouldn't be taken away.

Up until recently, abortion in New Zealand was part of the criminal code. Abortions were available, and funded, but women still had to get the approval of two doctors before it was possible. This wasn't difficult, if you had the means, but I'm sure that for poor, rural women, it was. Not to mention the indignity that women who knew what they needed or wanted, and knew all the alternatives, still had to ask two doctors to acknowledge that they had made the right decision. This situation has now changed, doctor sign off is not required up to 20 weeks, and abortion has been decriminalised. All parties now say they would not change the situation. I cannot imagine how furious I would be if that changed. 

So I feel for my US friends and family and readers. As I've also said on A Separate Life here, I want to let you know that we are all thinking of you. As my Prime Minister said, "it is a loss for women everywhere."

Grief, attitude, and hope

Today I noticed a headline on a national news website, even though it was listed under Parenting and then – warning -  featured lots of happy photos of the author with her family. The article is called “Rediscovering joy after baby loss” and was published in recognition of Baby Loss Awareness Week this week. It comprised an excerpt from a new book, “Your Soul is Wintering” by Annie Anderson, telling her own story after losing babies in utero.

The excerpt itself doesn’t go into any details of her losses, though maybe her book does, or her other children (two of whom look young enough to have been born afterwards). Instead, it talks about her grief afterwards, turning to others who had experienced similar losses (as we have all done here), and observing that whilst some people had recovered and were full of joy and gave her hope, others gave the appearance that they would never recover, and implied that there was nothing they could do about it. The excerpt notes the debilitating experience of being told that life being “bearable” was the best she could hope for after such a loss, and when she realised that she wanted to be happy, and her fear that she never would be.

Grief, as we know, can be different for everyone, but I also see so many similarities too, regardless of the type of loss. The author gained great hope from this quote:

‘I am convinced that life is 10 per cent what happens to me and 90 per cent how I react to it. The same is true for you.’ Charles R. Swindoll

Although I might quibble with the exact numbers, I like the idea of the overall quote. Ultimately, how we react influences our future happiness. I touched on this last week here. Attitude, perspective, acceptance, and approach can also influence how we can recover, and long-term, how we might bounce back from setbacks, the occasional ouch moments, or hurtful comments. For me, as I often say, learning to deny those negative questions, learning to show self-compassion, knowing that I am more than my loss or childlessness/No Kidding status allowed me to feel free to embrace my new future, and allows me to continue to do that every day.

Anderson also talks about another key feeling that motivates me too. She wrote,

“I was deeply moved by a strong urge to live a life that honoured our babies, not defined by our suffering but by our love.”

I’ve used very similar words. We can, I think, all relate to this sentiment. Because whether or not we suffered a pregnancy loss, we all suffered the loss of the children we had wanted, the children we already loved so much. Honouring our love for them by living a good life can give us meaning. It honours the difficulty of what we might have been through. It makes us think of love. And it allows us to hope again, and feel true joy. I, and so many others, can attest that it is worth it.

 

 

 

Talking about The Unthinkable

I was thinking over the weekend that it was time I wrote a more upbeat post here. Because life right now, here in New Zealand, is good, and only a few weeks ago I wrote about the importance of gratitude. So I should practice what I preach! Then this morning I heard an interview with a couple who had lost their baby shortly after birth. Their story is the first in a podcast series about being produced by Radio New Zealand (RNZ), and rightly, the podcast is getting plenty of publicity from our national radio station. And I have to say, as sad as the story was, it was good to hear it at peak time on Monday morning, sandwiched between political commentary and news reports, less than two months from our own election. The interviewer too, let them talk. It helped that the woman in the couple is a journalist for RNZ, and they were both very open and articulate.

You can hear today’s interview via this link, and the five-part podcast is aptly titled, The Unthinkable. Episode One, about the first couple’s experience, is already up.

One issue that the father talked about is one I could very much relate to. He talked about those first fleeting moments of happiness or laughter, then being wracked with guilt. “How could I laugh when I’ve lost my baby?” he remembered feeling. I lifted my head and looked to the sky and said, “oh god, yes!” I had exactly that reaction, almost verbatim, numerous times. Until I realised that it was okay. It didn’t mean I didn’t love the baby I never had, the pregnancies I had lost. It didn’t mean I didn’t deserve it. I’ve written about this a lot, most recently here and all of them labelled “guilt” are here. But even though I knew all this, it was very good to hear it being said, and very good to know that others in need were hearing this too.

Another interesting point was they talked about a subsequent miscarriage, in between the two children they have had since. They talked about how hard that was, and how that brought considerable fear the next time they got pregnant. Many can relate to that. It was the theme of my post only a couple of weeks ago. Our innocence – that we can have a pregnancy (healthy, or at all) – is gone.

Yes, it can be hard listening. It is far from upbeat. But there is really good advice about relationships, about how people can help (we can all relate to that I am sure), and about the hope. Because there is hope there too. Hope for recovery. Hope to understand that they will feel happy again. Hope to know that a good life is possible; in fact, inevitable. And that's the best news any of us can have.