Loving the life we have

Elaine wrote a wonderful post - "You can't have everything." Go read it. It's perfect. 

I've mentioned before that my husband was essentially given a terminal diagnosis just over a year ago. At the time, well-meaning friends and family said, "you must be so pleased you had your big trip last year," referring to our three-month trip* to Ireland, UK, and Portugal. At the time, that was TOO SOON! His life wasn't over. But they were acting as if it was. And as symptoms had appeared on our trip, maybe we could have got treatment sooner if we hadn't gone. I felt and feel real guilt about that. The trip's wonderful memories were not a silver lining to learning how sick he was, and that treatment would never be "curative." The trip was a reminder that it may have made his condition worse. And of course, I was grieving then. I still am. 

The "aren't you glad" comments felt similar to the "at least" comments about early pregnancy losses ("at least you weren't further along") or "at least you have each other" or "at least you can travel" when we knew we'd never have children, or "at least you could afford IVF." Comments like "at least" need to be timed better. When loss is new, or imminent, it is not a comfort. It is a little dismissive. It's not going to make us feel better. Even if it makes the speaker feel a little better. And I know the sentiment behind it is well intended. But it definitely made me flinch. Ouch.

We were told during treatment that he would have a "healthy period" and we should make the most of it, and decide what we wanted to do. We went on another trip** -  this time to his bucket list destination of Egypt, and then a cruise through the Straits of Hormuz to Singapore. Of course, everyone now is saying what perfect timing our trip was. They are right. We were lucky, in a year when very little has felt lucky. But there was grief and there were good-byes as well as joy. 

We're now at the stage where we have accepted the ending is coming. We've been talking about our lives, and in particular, our travels. Travelling together was our great love, our great interest, and yes, our great expense! In the years after learning we would never have children, we intensified our travels. From 2002, between ectopic pregnancies, through to 2013, we travelled internationally every year, sometimes twice. That's nothing if you are in the UK or Europe, or even the US, but quite an achievement if you live in NZ, where a seven-hour flight is almost considered "short haul." We had some wonderful wonderful trips. Some were adventures, some big long road trips, some were "blobs on the beach" as we called our tropical beach holidays, depending on our energy levels. After 2013, our travelling slowed for a few years, with health issues and elder care issues, though we still managed to fit in several new countries in 2017 and 2019, COVID caused a glitch for a couple of years, but even then we managed to have a great tour of NZ when overseas travel was out of the question. 

We took these trips because we didn't have children, and the trips from 2004 through to 2013 were deliberate responses to our No Kidding status becoming permanent. They were not just consolation trips. They were trips we had chosen to sacrifice when we decided to try for children. Because of course, if we'd had children, we knew we wouldn't be able to "have it all" either, as Elaine said. Every choice includes a sacrifice too. And knowing we couldn't have children, we decided to make the most of it. 

So now I can admit that yes, I'm glad we had our three-month trip in 2024. I couldn't say that this time last year. But I don't flinch thinking about it now. Well, not all the time. Not badly. Yes, I'm glad we went to Egypt last year too. And yes, we are both very glad that we were able to enjoy those trips together, that we have all those memories of discovering over 65 countries (mostly) together. "At least" we travelled earlier, before retirement. 

And now our world is more limited. So I take advice from Elaine's post, and embrace the little things, that together make something big. We are doing that now. Today's was a coffee and a sausage roll together from a local shop. 

We couldn't have it all. We knew that. We couldn't have children. And we're not going to have an old age together. I am very much feeling that now. I especially feel it as I watch another family going through a similar process, but with the support of two adult children. But that was our life. We couldn't have it all. But we have had a lot. After not having children, we made the choice to accept it, and live. And our life together is not over yet. 

 

 

 * I write about it here - My 2024 Travels - though I've only got through Ireland for perhaps obvious reasons.

** I've documented some of the trip on A Separate Life where you can search "What I did on my holidays" or just click here.  

Why would they say that?

“No Kids? Do You want mine?” Every childless person has probably heard these words at some stage in their lives. Depending on our stage of life, and whether we are newly grieving loss or fully accepting our childlessness and embracing the childfree benefits of that, it lands differently. It’s a silly remark, that is never fully thought through. I wonder why they say it? That got me thinking:

·         They might think it is funny, and have given no further thought to the comment and its impact on us than that.

·         Maybe they want to silence us; after all, what is there to say to such a comment? Unable to help us, they instead find our losses uncomfortable and easier not to talk about, so dismiss us with a jest instead

·         They might think we are foolish, wanting the children who are exhausting them, looking at parenthood through rose-coloured glasses.

·         Or is it annoyance that they need some acknowledgement and an ear for the realities of their life, just as we do?

·         Perhaps they feel guilt that they got something so easily that we were not able to have, and so feel defensive

·         Is it stress that prompts them to dream of a time without the constant worry and effort that comes with being a parent? The sense of relief they might feel at that possibility could prompt such a comment, but cased as a joke, so they don’t feel terrible and can brush it off.

·         Or is it sheer frustration that having kids is not what they thought it might be, and they genuinely need a break?

·         Or is there a moment of jealousy, when they envy our lives, and they want to lash out?

Most of the time, I think this comment is not meant to be is deliberately hurtful. Even if it is, maybe that says more about their happiness than ours. I think there is often misunderstanding about our lives – on both sides. Thinking this way helps me deal with insensitive comments like these. They always say so much more about the person who utters these thoughtless or unkind statements than they do about us.

 

 

 

More Otherhood Thoughts: Inspired by the library

It was great to see this week that our local library is offering unlimited downloads of Otherhood this week. And as a result, I also discovered that our library has a quite interesting blog! And in that blog* was an interview with the three editors. There were a few takeaways that I really liked, that sum up my view of No Kidding/Otherhood life, and that say what I want to say, just in a different way. 

The theme of the book really became, "what makes a fulfilling life?" And noted that the relationship between parent and child wasn't the "be all and end all." They were preaching to the choir on this one.

They wanted a diversity of experience, and got it, and I loved this part of the book. Because whether we wanted children or not, whether it was a deliberate choice or not, we are all affected by pronatalism, by judgement, and by condescension. 

Through the book, they've helped create a community, just as parents have an in-built community through prenatal classes or schools etc. They recognised that communities of No Kidding women already exist (like ours), but this is another option. I'm all for that. Not everyone is as lucky as I have been to find first my ectopic community, and then my blogging community. Community is, of course, especially important to those who otherwise feel isolated from society. As many as possible, please!

I had to laugh too when they noted that they have to restrain themselves (or not) when young people say, "I'm going to have two/three/four children." Or, "next year we intend to have a baby!" I have certainly been there. As two of the editors also experienced infertility, they know too well that such predictions might not come true, and hope that by talking about this more, young people can realise earlier that nothing is guaranteed.

They also noted they hoped the book and the interview might prompt people to think twice about the questions they ask. One encouraged parents to think about the most interesting thing you can talk about that is not about your kids/parenthood, etc. This is so overdue. "But it's natural for people to ask that," everyone (usually parents, or my don't-rock-the-boat husband) protests. It doesn't have to be. It's lazy, and it's a habit, is my response! And now I'm thinking about the most interesting thing I can talk about too. "Interesting" needs to be defined differently for each person. Travel, work, volunteering, retirement, food, etc etc.

As Lil (I think), pointed out, asking questions in a different way makes the diversity of stories throughout our lives more visible, and therefore not as isolating. I love this thought. My situation has certainly made me more aware of the many other diverse stories in society.

"Tell us about YOU, don't lead with your kids," they all implored. I second that. And should be writing it on my other blog. (I have, and it will be up next week.)

I was amused too that they said they tried to get our notoriously private former Prime Minister Helen Clark (also Not Kidding) to be involved with the book, but with no luck. "Phone me, Helen," said one, cheekily. She made me smile. But how great it might have been if someone with Helen's profile spoke out, in the same way that Jacinda once cringingly said, "not as a Prime Minister, but as a mother." However, I also understand her desire for privacy. It is no-one's business. And she was just as compassionate (and successful) a politician as any parent ever was.

Finally, they noted that the response so far has been wonderful, that so many people have found our stories meaningful. And that parents have been both supportive, but also have been curious. After all, just as their lives could have been ours, Otherhood is the story of the life that could have been led.

* Would you believe it? Between finding the blog and the interview, making detailed notes (thankfully) through the interview, and today, the library website has been "updated" and I can't find the interview anywhere. Argh.

Social Interactions when Childless

I write about No Kidding issues every week, and have been doing this for years. Does that mean I am over-sensitised to the issue, as some might claim? Maybe. But it also means that I am very aware of being a minority in this pronatalist world. Others might shrug. But I notice. Comments, attitudes, the choice of a simple word, or descriptor, that I wouldn't use, or that isolates me and my community. And often, in that instant, I am torn. Do I make a point? Just ignore comments? Or try and educate? I don't have a strict policy. It always depends on the person, the circumstances, and how I’m feeling.

A social event this weekend was in many ways remarkable in that there were so many topics to talk about, and so many people with interest in the wider world, that the issue of kids hardly came up. The party was hosted by a friend. She and her partner don’t have children either, and nor do several of her friends I’ve previously met. Anyway, we were all of an age where any children would have left home, so it wasn’t part of the lively conversations that we had. (Well, except for her niece and nephew, but I’ve met their kids, so could talk about them easily and comfortably.) So there I was, happily chatting away with new people, people we’d heard about from our friends for years, and some people I hadn’t seen for 30 years.

I got chatting to someone I haven’t known socially, but worked with for a very short time way back in the late 80s. I mentioned a very happy time in my life, when I had a variety of work (boards, consulting) and also volunteered. She asked about the volunteering. Oh, I said, it was for an overseas medical charity, thinking that the “medical” information might have been enough of a hint. She asked for more details. “Okay,” I thought, “you asked for it!” I explained that I’d volunteered for six years for an ectopic pregnancy charity, the only one in the world that we knew of, that provided online support and advice. She nodded, and noted that she had had an ectopic pregnancy too. You never know, you know? We chatted about it, and about the health system. I then realised that I’ve heard her name (and her husband’s, who I also knew from way back then) a lot from our mutual friend, but never with any discussion of children. I didn’t ask her, and she didn’t ask me. It was refreshing. A little bonding experience, that neither of us felt the need to take any further at the time. (Though now I need to check with my friend to see if they did in fact have children.)

I then got chatting to another woman. We had worked together at our first job post-university, but needed to be introduced to recognise each other (her hair was now short, and mine was now long and grey)! I’d also heard her news from our mutual friend over the decades, and vice versa. We were joking about Swedish Death Cleaning, and she made a comment about the kids being gone, and so we are all ready to leave our big family homes and downsize. I don’t know if I winced, but I must have reacted. I think I stammered a bit. Not because it hurt, but more because I don’t like people to assume that everyone has a “big family home” and so was trying to think how to respond without making a big deal of it. (Even though I still live in what might have been our "big family home.") So of course, she asked if we had children. “No,” was the only answer I needed to give. And then we just continued with our conversation. It’s so nice when people pick up on cues, and don’t pry!

When I was first going through the pain of lost pregnancies and new childlessness, I didn’t want to have to talk about my circumstances to anyone except those closest to me. I didn’t want to risk getting upset, or angry. I don't have that concern now. Then I worried about being seen as other, as being judged. These days, I'm more likely to judge them if they judge me, so that's less of an issue too! And sometimes I wonder if I should be educating everyone, with proselytising zeal. And then when I don’t, I feel guilty.

But you know, these days, I have a choice. I’m not concerned about upsetting anyone by talking about my reality. They talk about theirs, I talk about mine. Fair is fair. And my reality is being childless in a pronatal world. I’ve commented a few times recently on social media posts, for example, gently reminding some mothers that you don’t have to be a mother to care for X or Y. Equally, I feel I do enough here, and elsewhere, that I don’t have to educate every person I meet. I no longer feel guilty if I don't take the opportunity to educate people, even if I am in fact more likely now to take those opportunities. 

So each time, I assess the circumstances of the conversation – who I am with, where we are, how well I know them. In this case, I was surrounded by people happily celebrating a mutual friend’s birthday. It was not a time to talk about the realities or stereotypes or assumptions about those of us without children. And I'm very comfortable with that. It's a sense of freedom that I’ve given myself. I hope you feel that way too.

 

 

Monday Miscellany: No Kidding travel version

I've been away the last few weeks. (Read about it here on A Separate Life.) That means I didn't get to fully participate in World Childless Week, other than my three posts here, here and here. I intend - when I recover - going back and reading a lot of the writing and discussion around the week. Even though it has been many years now, it still means a lot to me that a community gets together and discusses our issues with openness and love and understanding.I just wish I'd had time to be involved in real time.

My trip was spent with relatives, and the children of the relatives, so it was a little bittersweet. I loved getting to know the kids better. They're all such interesting young people now, and my niece has admirable feminist tendencies, which I applaud. But she was also a reminder of what I have lost. She was presenting her thesis, thinking about her future, when I remember her as a three-month old one Christmas, the Christmas that I went through whilst my first ectopic pregnancy was resolving. The eldest son would have been just a little younger than my second ectopic pregnancy. He's at medical school across the country, but was there for a few days during our visit. The house was full of people - the two eldest both have partners, and we got to know them as well, they cooked us dinner, we took them out. It was a bustling happy home. We came home to peace and quiet, which is lovely, but it's also sometimes a bit too quiet. Not often, but the contrast is there. 

Then of course there was a comment. It was said with the nicest of intentions, and so I hope I responded in kind. It was noted that of the three brothers there, my husband was the most considerate and helpful, getting things done, organising people, etc. "You wouldn't think he would be, because he doesn't have kids," the commenter said. My response was along the lines of "why wouldn't you think he would be?" I went on, but this is paraphrased, and is perhaps stronger than what I actually said. "He's a person, he can see what needs to be done, and as you can plainly see, fathers do not have a monopoly on being helpful around the house." Sigh. There's always someone who says something.

School holidays had not begun. So flight prices were better, places weren't crowded, traffic was okay. There are benefits to no kidding travel. 

And of course, once again, recovery has been easy. Well, as easy as it can be when you're coughing and under the weather. Yes, I picked up a virus. Yes. there was an overnight flight with only about half an hour sleep (we arrived in NZ at 1 am Perth time - ouch) so I needed to recover from that as well as jet lag and illness. Yes, I'm still recovering. Yes, I don't have to drive kids to sports events or ensure they are eating while studying etc etc. Yes, that makes it easier. Though you all know I would have happily done it all.

People who hurt us: World Childless Week

I’m starting to think about World Childless Week 2023, and the topics that are up for discussion this year. There are the usual Moving Forwards, We are Worthy, and #Iamme categories. I've contributed to them a couple of times, and might do the #Iamme again this year too. I love these topics because different people comment every year, can remember that they are more than just being childless, and we can all be reminded that yes, we ARE worthy, and that we do move forwards regardless.

There is a category this year that I think is really interesting. It is a “Letter to the Person who Hurt Me the Most.” Writers are encouraged to release their anger, disbelief, confusion and rage. I’ve been living a No Kidding life for almost twenty years now, so my memories might have faded a little. But I realise that I’ve also been lucky. There is no one person who “ripped my childless heart apart.” Yes, I heard some unkind thoughtless comments over the years, and they have stayed with me, at times inspiring blogs. You may recognise some of these:

•  “You never had anything so you never lost anything.”
•  “Childless people don’t know what they’re missing. So my pregnancy loss is more painful than theirs.”
•  “Childless people’s lives don’t change.
• Childless people are superfluous.
• “What’s wrong with you?”
• “As a mother I …”
• “You need to hold someone else’s baby. The Chinese believe that will help you conceive.”
• “I don’t care if I have a miscarriage. I know I can always get pregnant again.”
• “No-one cares about travel photos, only family photos.”
• “You don’t care about the future because you don’t have kids?”
• “My wife never had any problems.”
• “Tough, that’s life!”

Actually, several of the above comments came from one person, ironically someone I will see in the next few weeks. I’m shrugging. I don’t expect that particular person to ever be more thoughtful. The one time I called them out (in an extremely mild way) resulted in an attack on me, and one of the comments above. So I don’t need to write a letter to them.

Also, actions speak louder than words. The parent friends who never/rarely invited me to babysit or to the kids’ birthday parties. The family member who said they would never acknowledge a theoretical adopted child as a member of the family, and acted accordingly. The family members who ignored our wishes and efforts and circumstances, but always made excuses for the bad behaviour of those who were parents in the family. The genealogists who marginalised us, and the older family members who implied we were irrelevant. The bloggers who wanted us silenced when we wanted to have our realities acknowledged and considered.

And then there were the things that were not said. Never being asked about how we felt. Never having the realities of our life acknowledged. Never being told they were sorry.

But I’ve gone over and over these comments, actions, and silences over twenty years, and don’t want to re-enter that world of anger and hurt. It’s not going to help me. But it might help you, or others who are not as distanced from the grieving periods. But there will be a lot of women and men who have been tremendously hurt, but have hidden that. They may have hidden their anger too. Maybe they’ve even suppressed it out of misperceived guilt. Maybe it has destroyed their confidence, silencing them. This could be a way to reclaim that. This could be a wonderful opportunity to get some things off your chest. You can do it anonymously too. I admit I’m looking forward to the writings in this category, as it could be cathartic. But I’m dreading it a little, too.

Have a look at the other topics in this year’s World Childless Week. Think about making a submission. I’m keen to see what people might come up with. I’m going to think some more on these issues - hopefully before the deadline of 27 August!