Carrying it well

I thought I was taking the easy way out today, when I decided that I would tap into scribblings I’ve made in my notepad apps for future blogs. I did it on A Separate Life here, but got stuck in a quagmire when trying to write this blog, perhaps because the issues are a bit deeper, less trivial, and speak to me more. But I’m still taking the easy way out, because this song speaks our truth. I am not someone who usually listens to song lyrics, and I’m probably not telling you anything new, but this is worth checking out.

Of course, it reflects so many people’s feelings. And it is appropriate for my No Kidding friends too. It can be hard. We hide it well. And it will turn out okay.

Carry it well, by Sam Fischer

“Just because I carry it well
Doesn't mean it isn't heavy and I don't need some help
I know I keep it locked down, but all I want now
Is somebody who can tell me how it's gonna turn out
'Cause I thought I'd be doing better by now
I thought I'd be doing better by now
But don't I carry it well?”

Go look for the rest of the lyrics – I don’t want to get in trouble with copyright – or listen to it here:

 

Self-knowledge beats fear

I had a bit of a wobble at the beginning of the New Year. The blissful isolation of Christmas Day dragged on, and I felt alone. We weren’t doing fun things with a wider family, or friends. The entire country seemed to be having fun, and we weren’t. I knew of course, realistically, that I was not alone, and that others were having harder times than I was. But for a while, I felt cast adrift.

One of the things that was bugging me was a relationship that has changed over the last 20 years - as I had pregnancy losses and forged a childlessness path, and they became a parent and socialised with other parents more and more. I know we’ve drifted apart, and I had been wondering if I was ready to let it go. But we’d never had a falling out, even though we weren’t as close as we had been (and will never be), and so I wondered if there was still value in the relationship. Those negative thoughts had been doing their evil thing, telling me that we hadn’t been in touch because they were ready to let me go. That it was always me reaching out (which wasn't quite true, but ... negative voices were convincing me it was). And that may have been the truth, and if it was, then I was ok with that.

But I decided I wasn’t going to let those negative thoughts have their own way. Not without one last challenge to them. So I reached out, tentatively, but openly. And was received with open arms. We made a date. We met, and talked for hours. Even if we don’t do it again for another year, or even ever, then I can live with that. The relationship has been worth holding on to, even if it is different now. If they don't reach out to me in the future, I can handle that. I've made the effort. And it seemed to be appreciated.

Of course, if I hadn’t been through loss and childlessness, then the relationship may never have changed. But equally, if I hadn’t been through those losses, and all the years of readjustment and thinking about who I am, and my place in the world, then I might not have recognised those negative voices in my head. I might not have been able to dismiss them. And I might not have been able to have come to a place where I was at peace regardless of what would happen, and so was able to reach out without fear. And for that, I’m grateful. 

 

Speaking Out Revisited

Rather than not post at all, I thought it might be good to repost something I've written before, because frankly, I think I need a few reminders at the moment. Originally written three years ago as Speaking Out:

My name is Mali, and I have no children. I have no problem admitting this, and write openly about this fact, the issues around it, and my experiences both in terms of accepting that I could not have children, and in terms of embracing my life as a woman, not a mother.

Yet my name is not Mali, and I don’t publicise this blog to my wider group of friends and colleagues - though I expect I may do so one day - and I worry that this makes me a fraud.

The bottom line is that under my own name, I might be more hesitant, hoping to avoid both judgement and pity. What we write about, and why we write, can, unfortunately, be easily misconstrued, as I see sometimes in discussions with people who aren’t part of this community - even when they want to understand, they struggle.

But then I found this quote about speaking out and fear - born from different circumstances but no less relevant here - and my intentions for this space are renewed.

Ten examples showing why I believe infertility brings out the best in us

Recently, in the context of the twitterstorm, someone in the ALI community commented, "Infertility brings out the worst in all of us ... We’re all guilty."

I beg to differ.

Yes, there might be some people out there who are bitter, ignorant and judgemental, who lash out in hurt or anger. This is often indicative of where they are in their journey. I know there are people who have been unkind to the newly pregnant or mothers. But I know too there are pregnant women and mothers who have been judgemental and unkind and superior towards those who are still in a place of hurt and pain as they battle their infertility, or those who have gone on to live lives without children. At times members of both these groups show little empathy, which is I think very sad given the magnitude of their shared experiences. Ultimately though, I think the proportion of people who react badly to others is very small.

In my experience, infertility brings out the best in the large majority of us. I want to use the word heroic, because I believe that the personal effort required of, and toll taken on, so many women to behave so well is nothing short of heroic.  I’m talking about what I’ve observed other women doing, in person and on-line, over the last decade and more. In fact, I see examples of most of these every day in the blogging community. Just writing this list made me happy, and full of pride.

1. Women who are still trying to conceive, who have suffered loss, and women who know they will never have children, nonetheless congratulate the newly pregnant, and the new mothers, with enthusiasm and love.


2. Women who see posts or pictures or hear statements that hurt them choose not to comment or lash out. They choose to suffer in silence, rather than spread the pain.


3. Newly bereaved women attend baby showers, or buy gifts for a new baby of friends or family, hiding their own grief so as not to spoil the joy of others.


4. Women who have had multiple ectopic pregnancies forget their own experiences, and repeatedly encourage those who have had their first such loss, reassuring them with statistics that show there is a 90% chance that their next pregnancy will be okay.


5. Women who knew they could never have children, or could never complete their families after many losses, have (virtually) held the hands of the newly pregnant, daily guiding them through those first scary weeks of a pregnancy before they get confirmation that it is in the right place, and frequently continued to guide them through the next eight months of a very anxious pregnancy, with love, encouragement and support. They put their own emotions to the side, and help these women through a very difficult time, showing nothing but empathy, however painful it is to them.


6. Women help others get through difficult times, putting aside their own, sometimes much worse experiences, to help and soothe and encourage others on their way, recognising simply that pain is pain.


7. Newly pregnant women and new mothers show compassion and sensitivity on their own blogs, choosing not to exude smugness or judgement or superiority, avoid triggers or advise in advance of potential triggers in their posts. (I’ve often commented – perhaps on other people’s blogs more so than here – that I think it is sad that they feel they have to do this. However, I applaud their willingness to do so, and their empathy and consideration of those who might find surprise pregnancy announcements or the sometimes shocking visual of scan photos to be upsetting.)


8. Pregnant women and mothers and childfree-by-choice women reach out in an effort to understand those of us who can’t have children, and to help us feel less like pariahs, in this community at least. The interviews Mo and Cristy did with Pamela and Loribeth, which Pamela is currently highlighting on her blog, are an example of this. Mel's efforts to include No Kidding bloggers as part of her community, and the comments I receive here from Noemi, Mel, Cristy and others are another example.
   


9. Women write blogs and books and speak out publicly, bravely, to shine a light on a journey that is still subject to social stigma, in order to help others who come after them.


10. And women who - through infertility - have suffered pain, or who continue to suffer pain, or who are scarred by that pain, or who remember that pain, extend their empathy to others throughout society who suffer pain too, and implore us to be kind to all. As Savannah said so beautifully, we “… may never know what demons haunt them inside.”

These are just a few examples of the empathy and compassion and courage  shown by those who suffer and have suffered infertility. Infertility brings out the best in so many people, often when they feel at their worst.

Quoting bravery

As a follow-up to my previous post on Courage as one of the Gifts of Infertility, I wanted to add some quotes that I didn't use then. Of course, I played with some of my photos. I thought using my favourite barren lioness was appropriate. And I edited a quote slightly. It won't be hard to figure out which one.

 

Gifts of Infertility Series - #19 - Courage

Rather than being the easy way out, letting go of a dream can require immense bravery.

It takes courage to say, “enough is enough,” to step off the treadmill and often, away from the support we might have there.

It takes courage to know that your decision will bring sadness and loss, to absorb that as part of you, and to continue to face the world every day.
 

It takes courage to say good-bye to our dreams or expectations, without knowing what will replace them.

It takes courage to face head on the emotions of grief, sadness and loss, of isolation and otherness, and to feel them fully, working through them, to come out the other side.

It takes courage to let go of the expectations and hopes of others – family and friends - to bear the burden of their sadness and disappointment as well as our own.

It takes courage to step out from the crowd and live a life that is different, and visible (even when we feel invisible).

It takes courage to tell your story, knowing that speaking (or writing) it will make it real.

It takes courage to own the life we live, to step above the judgements of family, friends, society (including our own IF community) that might see us forever as “less than.

It takes courage to absorb so much loss and judgement, from others and ourselves, and then to let it go, to acknowledge that we are not responsible for others’ hopes and dreams for us, to accept that without guilt.

It takes courage to fully live and embrace a life different to the one you had planned.

It takes courage to be a heretic, to see and celebrate what we have, not what we have not.

That courage becomes part of us. When we use it, it grows. It has given me courage when facing other losses, other health issues, and our own old age. It has given me courage where and when I didn’t know I had any.

Shying away from exposure

Yesterday was Babyloss Awareness Day, and a lot of my friends have posted about it on Fb. I commented and appreciated these posts. But I didn’t post one myself. Which is not to say that I didn’t think about my own two lost pregnancies, or those of my friends and relatives who have lost babies – from young babies to still-births to early miscarriages.  We have all known the grief of losing a life we had such hope for, even if our losses and experiences were very different.  But this isn't something I talk about openly to all my FB friends. Or my family.  Maybe particularly my family.  Hmmm.

Now on the radio that is the soundtrack to my life, they are discussing the Apple/FB egg-freezing policy. They have a panel discussion, and invite comments. I wanted to get my two cents worth in, so I sent a comment. But I did it under a pseudonym. And not Mali either, because I've pretty much come out as Mali. No, believe it or not, my pseudonym has a pseudonym!

The weird thing is that I am perfectly prepared to speak out about infertility and my feelings about it. But on my terms. So I guess that I am still wary of being part of a public discussion. I feel exposed – but I think I might feel that way about any other topic too. New Zealand is a really small place, and the odds are that people I know personally and professionally will see/hear my comments. Well, that’s my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

Gifts of Infertility Series - #8 - Self-Confidence

I hesitated to add self-confidence to my list, as one of the first impacts of my losses and infertility was a severe lack of confidence. It didn't help that I’d changed careers at the time, and I no longer had the daily reminders that I was an intelligent and capable person, or the reinforcement of colleagues and clients when I did a good job. This lack of confidence was surprising to me. If you’d asked me, I would have said I had never tied my self-worth or my identity as a woman to being able to have children. But when I couldn't have children, when I was shut out of the mothers’ club, I felt the onslaught of society telling me that I was “less.” And my confidence plummeted.

So it may seem strange that I list confidence as one of the gifts of infertility. I have the benefit of being a decade on from the first shock of loss, and if I look back, I see a real growth in self-confidence too. Yes, this may be a result of the wisdom of a few more years. But it is also the result of new experiences, of being thrust into a situation I didn't choose, and of being forced to work through this to find a place of peace.

But as I dealt with my losses and infertility, as I found new talents, as I realised I was learning to deal with life and whatever it throws at you, my confidence was restored. Strictly speaking, it was never restored, because it when it returned, it was in a very different guise, with quite a different view of life. 

I developed a much clearer idea of who I am.  I know what I think – and perhaps for the first time in my adult life, what I think about me is more important than what others think.  Oh, I'm a work in progress. But I am so much better than I was. Confidence doesn't mean that I never worry, that I don’t feel fear, that I don’t second-guess myself sometimes. But it does mean that, deep within, I don’t have those insidious insecurities about who I am, or what I am trying to prove. This gives me a real freedom to think and act and simply be. I like that.

I have been broken down, and rebuilt piece by piece. And that rebuild is solid.

The real success stories

There’s been much discussion about women in the infertility blogging community recently, and about how they feel their place changes in this community as they get through to the “other side,” when they have “crossed over.”  It sounds like a death, but it isn’t.  This term is used by almost everyone to describe those who have become pregnant and had babies after infertility.  They talk about those still trying to conceive as “yet to cross to the other side.”  Those are, as far as most of these women are concerned, the only two categories.  The use of the word “graduation” particularly bothers me, because it implies that there has been a degree of application, skill and talent to get to the other side, which should be congratulated, when we know that unfortunately none of these have any bearing on whether our bodies conceive or not.  There is no acknowledgement of those who don’t have children, of those who are no longer trying to conceive.  They don't want to think about us, they don't want to contemplate our futures.

It is the same in the ectopic pregnancy boards I visit.  People talk about “success stories” meaning those who have gone on to have a successful pregnancy, in the right place, after an ectopic.  I have no problem with newly bereaved, shocked, traumatised women asking for success stories.  They are desperate to know that everything will be okay.  (Of course, there is a 90% chance that their next pregnancy will be in the right place, but as we all know, loss or infertility can cause us to lose faith in our bodies and distrust statistics).  But when those who have been around the boards start using the term “success stories” it bothers me.  Because if they are a success, then by implication, it must mean that I am a failure.

An aside here:  I started to write this before the Salons suggested by Mel, and here on my own blog I was prepared to be far more honest, and blunt, than I was in my comments on the Salons.  My draft post said “This irritates me.”  Even then I was, as you can see, self-editing!

I acknowledge that those of us following our path are scary, we’re the worst nightmare of the women going through infertility, and they see our lives through grey-tinted glasses, feeling that they are full of gloom, of loss, of despair.  They are focused so much on what they want, that they can’t see there are benefits.  They see us as childLESS. I know, because I was there once.  I remember a very dark moment, wondering what I would do if we couldn't have children, and I really just didn’t see the point  in anything anymore.  That didn’t last long – I think I’ve always understood there was more to life than children – but it was frightening even to cross my mind, and remembering that helps me understand those who are so fearful of us.

But you know, I’m going to speak out now.    I think that – of all of us who go through loss or infertility – we here on the no kidding path are the true success stories.  We are living a life that we never expected to be living. We’re not getting the reward we had hoped for.  We don’t win the lottery.  We had – at least at one stage of our lives, or perhaps all of our lives – expected children, expected to be mothers.  And we’re not.  But that is where our very success lies.  To forge ahead, to live good lives which are different to what we had expected, to me that is courage, that is real success.

We are not failures.  Yes, our bodies may have failed to conceive, but I don’t view an accidentally-pregnant-after-a-drunken-grope-in-the-backseat-of-a-car woman as a success.  So I certainly don’t consider myself to be a failure either.  I am someone who knew when it was right for her (and her husband) to stop  (ie I listened to my doctor!!), someone who accepted that life without children could be good.  Someone who decided that her relationships and sanity and life were all just as important – or collectively more so – than her need to have children.  Someone who could balance her need and desire to have children with the options that were available, assessing which were realistic and which weren’t.  To be honest, when I was faced with all this, it didn’t really feel like a choice.  (I was shocked to find myself shocked when someone on the healing salons commented on my “choice to be childfree.”)  But I could have tried to pursue additional treatments or explore adoption even when they were less than viable options for us.  I could have, but I chose not to, because I knew it was not right for me, for us.

So, in my humble opinion, my fellow no kidding friends and I are the real successes of the ALI community.  We are loving our lives.  We are busy, active in our communities, aiding family and friends, and even helping strangers through volunteer activities.  We are kind and compassionate, funny and strong.  And yes, we get to sleep in on the weekend!  We have a small part of our being that holds grief and loss and sadness, but this small part doesn't dominate our lives.  We are in fact living lives every bit as successful, every bit as fulfilled as those who have gone on to be parents.   

Our path is a very legitimate, and potentially very happy, outcome of infertility.  It is time it was recognised as such, rather than hidden away, ignored, and feared.  Surely our stories, showing the truth, the pain, and the joys, should help those going through infertility, should give them confidence that no matter what, they will be okay.  They WILL be okay, because we are okay.  Surely stories like ours should help take away their fear, not reinforce it?