The importance of connections

I remember when I had my ectopic pregnancies that I could talk about the "mechanics" of the situation - scans, what an interstitial or cornual ectopic was, etc etc, relatively easily with friends and family. But as soon as it got into the emotions, I couldn't speak. I'm not someone who cries easily in public. Or should I say, I'm not someone who wants to be able to cry easily in public. I hate it! I try not to. But ectopics and infertility opened the floodgates. And being in contact with kind people who were empathetic saved me. Blogging here has reinforced that. Helping people who are going through hard times, or just having a space for myself to have a moan and a wobble, a space where I know people will understand, has been a gift.

So this last year has been tough. People ask how I am, and I talk about my husband's condition. If they're extra kind, they'll say, "and how are YOU?" and that's the danger zone. So I explain that, through the tears threatening to spill, and see if we can change the subject. The thing is, I don't even know what the answer is. So even if I could talk, I'm not sure what I'd say. The kindness though, starts the waterworks. Accepting their sympathy and/or empathy is really tough. So I let them know I appreciate it. And that contact helps. Whether it's a blog comment, an email or whatsapp, a dinner or coffee out, or a visit. Support comes many different ways. Sometimes the most meaningful is also the simplest.  I am pleased to be reminded of that, so I can help myself, and at the same time support others too.

 

Being on the other side

Right now, I find myself in a situation where I need to call on all the things I've learned through infertility and loss and childlessness over the years. Someone I know well has a major surgery next week. It's one with considerable risks, and those risks are not happy ones or ones that can be brushed aside. It's not just a case of "every surgery has risks" because it is "this specific surgery has risks." It's just that it has to be done. There's no real option.

They seem to be rather gloomy about it. That's understandable. Their partner doesn't sound very sympathetic, and is in fact, frustrated by the gloom. I guess that's understandable too, for different reasons.

I'm having to remember:

• to listen to the person 
• to let them feel what they want to feel
• to tell them I wish them the best, and that I am hoping for a great outcome
• to contact them more regularly, just to chat
• to offer support to their partner and family too.

This is one of the weird gifts of being through other tough times. We know what doesn't help. We know that dismissing our feelings can be really hurtful. We know that people who say, "it'll be fine" really don't have a clue! We know that silence, because we don't know what to say, is isolating and lonely and selfish. We know that it isn't about us, but them.

Wish me luck in remembering all the lessons I've learned.

My wish for 2024

Having survived a Christmas with a teen and a three-year-old (and their parents), I was thinking about what actually hurts me now. It’s not really the loss of those experiences, if I’m honest. The three-year-old gave me much joy, as did the fifteen-year-old. They also made me glad that, right now, I do not have those ages in my house. They’re great fun, but they’re both a lot of work in completely different ways. And as I said last week, they’re not MY kids. And what I missed was “MY” kids, whoever they might have been. I don’t allow myself to miss them now because it is impossible to know what they would have been like. The possibilities are endless, as would be the pain if I allowed myself to imagine it, so I just don’t. It’s pointless. So I don’t.

Anyway, what I was starting to say (and got distracted), is that what causes me pain now are barbs that paint me as other, as less, as someone who “doesn’t understand,” as someone who is inferior because I haven’t had that experience, or as someone to be pitied. Directed personally at me, or comments made generally by people I don’t even know, the unintentional comments, the slights, the deliberate or unconscious othering and ignoring of my/our situations hurt. These are what set me apart, remind me that I did not have an experience that so many people had, and imply I am not a full equal member of society. Yet I’m not really allowed to talk about my experiences as a comparison, though I do when I can. If only the “as a mother” comments could be responded to by the “as a childless person” comments – both negative AND positive. If I felt I could talk about the personal growth I’ve been forced to undergo just as a parent is forced to “grow up” when they are responsible for a little one, I think I would feel more seen, more included in general society. If I could acknowledge both the loss and gains of being childless, just as a parent has to acknowledge that they lose when they also gain so much when they have children, my life might feel more “normal.” Of course, I’m sure many parents feel they can’t talk about the hardships of being a parent. I’ve always thought that was ridiculous, and it needs to change. We all need to empathise more with each other, to see each other's perspectives, and to recognise all our collective griefs and joys.

That’s my wish for 2024, which will have begun in New Zealand by the time I post this, and beyond.

Happy New Year, and I wish you all the very best for the coming year!

A Musical Interlude: Finding the Words

One of the things I remember most about going through grief was not having the words to explain myself, or even to ask for help, and others around me not having the words to be able to help. In the interim, I remember how well touch helped – simple, uncomplicated touches on my arm or shoulder, or hugs. How touch said what words couldn’t; “I care” or “I’m listening” or simply “I’m here.”

It often makes me think of this song, a well known song from a New Zealand musical icon of the last 40+ years or so. His songs Loyal, Welcome Home, and Slice of Heaven are unofficial anthems, and played at the right times, can bring stiff-upper-lip Kiwis to tears. Dave Dobbyn became Sir Dave earlier this year. He deserved it!

But this song is darker, but perhaps more meaningful. It seems to express those times of grief, or stress, or depression, when we can't express ourselves, or say what we want to - or should - say. Know that if you feel this way, you’re not alone. Many of us have been there. But it gets easier. And in the meantime, we're here.

Language by Dave Dobbyn

My hands are tied
Oh I could be a victim
When my tongue won't move 
You have tied with your heartstrings

When I needed you most 
I couldn't find the language
When I needed you more 
I couldn't say a word

My hands truly tied 
Yeah I know I'm a prisoner 
When my tongue wouldn't move 
You have tied with your heartstrings again

And when I needed you most 
I couldn't find the language 
When I needed you more 
I couldn't say a word

When I needed you most 
I couldn't find the language 
When I needed you more 
I couldn't say a word

One day a heap on the ground 
Next day I'm so proud 
Today I don't know, I don't know
Hey

Your hands are cold 
That's why I try to contain you 
Now my words are cursed 
Ember from the ashes

One day a heap on the ground 
Next day I'm so proud 
Today, I haven't got a clue 
Feels like a river of tears

Today I'm gonna dry these eyes 
No
When I needed you more 
Couldn't say a word

Couldn't say a word

 

No Kidding 2020 Project: Day 14 - Enquire

One of the habits I adopted almost immediately after finding that my journey to have children was over was that of correcting myself. When I saw the folic acid in the cupboard, I remember thinking "I should keep that just in case I get pregnant," followed by the immediate rebuttal, "but that's not going to happen, is it?"  Corrections like that were, initially, painful, but they also helped me learn not to live in the "what-ifs" and to surrender to the reality.

 I have, in general, broadened this to questioning myself, because those insidious little voices that tell us we were didn't deserve to have children, that it was our fault, that we are lesser were not only destructive, didn't go away so easily. And they came from somewhere inside me, as well as from others.


I learned to ask myself, "is that true?" I learned to question my assumptions - "did I really not deserve to have children? If so, how does anyone deserve to have them? What about the good people I know who don't have children, and the terrible people who have them easily?" I challenged those negative thoughts, and asked myself constantly about my assumptions. I came to learn what I thought was true, and what wasn't. I can tell you that this made my life so much better, in all aspects of my life. I felt I knew myself properly, for perhaps the first time in my life. I felt more content, more confident, more at peace.

It made it easier to question myself about my assumptions other people's behaviour too. To wonder what motivated them to say things that sounded insensitive or unkind or sometimes cruel. I realised I was able to understand people a little more as a result, and - better still - to forgive them when it was easier to see things from their perspective.

That then made it easier to question other people's assumptions too. To challenge them - gently, by asking them about these assumptions, about why they thought this way - and to put another side, my side, that they may have never considered before.

Enquiry, asking, questioning, wondering. I spend a lot of my time doing it. It helps. It has helped in the last months too, even though I have frequently been critical (in my head or to my husband) of the behaviour of others, when I step back and ask, "what makes them behave like that?" I can see that sometimes they are motivated by fear, by poverty, by loneliness. I can understand and forgive that. I don't have to agree. And I don't have to be silent. But it makes me kinder, and a bit calmer, and I like that.

Finding a balance: empathy and open debate

As I mentioned last week, over the last year or so my posts have been developing on a theme. The theme was first mentioned in one of my Gifts of Infertility series, where I talked about developing Compassion and Empathy.

So now, when I talk often about how thinking about my own situation, and about hurtful comments or attitudes towards me because I do not have children, I realise that this process has helped me better understand others. It has reminded me, when it is easy to forget, to be more compassionate to and strive for empathy towards others. I’ve been a bit concerned that my posts might have become a bit preachy, although really, what I have been sharing is how my own thinking has developed. And reminding myself to step back, be open, and be kind.

I've been thinking about this too, because I’m very conscious of discussions throughout society in recent years about increased sensitivity, of avoiding triggers. The questions about freedom of speech* and how far we should go to try to consider others, about how to have hard discussions that are still respectful, and about when it is unkind and unnecessary to do so are not completely resolved. A conversation in the comments of a previous post here were an example of this debate.

I’m trying to find a balance between my own indignation at attitudes about parents and non-parents, or comments that might trigger (a loaded word in itself these days) my own hurt, and my wish to keep dialogue open. I want to keep a dialogue open, because I believe that is how people learn - how we learn about others, and how they learn about us. I haven’t quite been able to reconcile the two in my mind, except for saying that I want everyone to feel they can have open, honest, discussions, ensuring at the same time that these need to be kind, considerate, outward-looking and open-minded.

Wishful thinking?

And have you been able to reconcile this?

* in the broad sense of the phrase, not the US Constitutional definition.

Nanette, Childlessness, and the Importance of Perspective

The world is talking about Hannah Gadsby’s Nanette Netflix special about her life as a comedian, a lesbian, a “not-normal.” It’s powerful and moving, at times funny, but at times deadly serious, and she made me think, and I hope many others.

As a childless woman, I know I am also a not-normal, although to a lesser extent, as I only stand out when asked the question, “do you have children?” So my No Kidding status helps me, just a little, understand what it means to look at the world from the outside, and most importantly, teaches me that not everyone views the world with the same perspective; though sadly I know there are many, many people who just don’t get it, and don't make any effort to understand.

For example, my MIL can never understand that it was okay that her daughters-in-law might have different tastes in art or clothing, and my BIL casually dismissed the often callous ways people with children treat or discard their childless friends, without even bothering to try to see something from our perspective. As Infertile Phoenix pointed out in an excellent post, her sister has never understood it either.

I hope though, that the more often people like Hannah Gadsby speak out about the way they are treated, then more and more people will start considering their family and friends and fellow humans as individuals, with different experiences and perspectives, and begin to show some sensitivity, some empathy.

Gadsby ends on hope though, saying, "there is nothing stronger than a broken woman who has rebuilt herself," and looking around this community, I have to say, I agree.

A great example of knowing better and doing better

I’ve written a bit lately about how I feel some IF (and post-IF) bloggers react to some of our blogs; when we write about strong women, they see it as elevating No Kidding women above those who are still trying, and when we ask for a bit of sensitivity – asking people who know better to do better – we’re accused of trying to live in a bubble.

So I wanted to point out that not all IF and post-IF bloggers are like this, even though I know I am stating the obvious because many of those wonderful women read my blog and are very thoughtful in their own blogs, having learnt and grown from their own experiences, as have we all.

I was recently delighted however, to see a comment from a blogger (a mother, and currently pregnant) called mamajo23, who wrote a comment (on Different Shores’ blog) about whether having a child is the holy grail and delivers automatic happiness, as we all seem to assume when we are desperately trying to conceive. Her comment was interesting:

“I can now say first hand that a child(ren) do not make life happy … but rather the incessant pressure from society to procreate finally subsides.”

This comment alone would have sparked a blog post from me, but as I have more to say today and only eight sentences to say it in, I’ll simply point out that you don’t have to have a child to notice that this pressure abates as you enter your mid-40s and beyond, and along with the wisdom and confidence that comes with these years anyway, there is a real feeling of a burden lifting.

I then visited her blog, finding that she has recently been thinking about some of the issues I’ve dealt with here in recent times, in particular triggers (through pregnancy announcements) and the idea of “giving up.”

I found it totally heart-warming to read these posts from her perspective (knowing of course that when I write I could be accused of being over-sensitive or bitter), as she and her equally sensitive readers and commenters reinforce the importance of us all considering other people’s situations, and of trying to be kind in our everyday and blogging lives.

Thank you, Mamajo23, for knowing better, and doing better.

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.

#MicroblogMondays: Imagine if …

I often find that people with children, when they hear women who embrace their life without children (either by choice, or because we had no choice), find it necessary to comment that they couldn’t imagine life without little Jack and Jill (or whoever).

Of course, they can’t (or won't) imagine their life as it is now without their children. To do so would be to imagine them gone, to feel their absence, their loss, and to imagine and feel the grief of this loss. Of course they can’t do that. And none of us are ever suggesting they should try. Maybe I should say that in future. Because it might be nice if they tried to imagine what their lives would have been like if they had never had children. Then, they might start to understand.

 

Gifts of Infertility Series - #13 – Compassion and empathy

We don’t all see the world the same. That is obvious. But many of us – after loss or infertility or both – find that we no longer see the world the same as our younger selves either. If the world had been safe before, then it is no longer safe. If we felt we had belonged before, we no longer feel we belong. If we thought that there was meaning before, maybe we no longer feel there is meaning. The world changes and we change with it.

Seeing the world differently for me meant that I was suddenly aware that many people don’t see the world as safe, struggle to find meaning, and no longer feel they belong. I could see the vulnerability of so many of us, and could understand others' pain or fear or isolation, having come face to face with these myself.  I understood grief and the grieving so much more, no matter what the loss is. And there are so many losses in this world.

I was able to take my experiences, the process of grief, longing, loneliness, and healing, and use them to try to understand others.  The desire to try to understand had always been there for me. But I started used it consciously, realising that previously I had probably empathised when it was natural, easy, or made me feel comfortable. 

This might seem contradictory, but I also understand much better that we can never make assumptions about what someone is thinking or feeling. Empathy and compassion forces me to think things through, to try to understand the different reasons why someone might act the way they do, say what they say, feel the way they feel. This understanding helps the compassion come more easily, and as it does, judgements and assumptions slip away.  And so the empathy grows.  Of course, that enables me to help people. I like that. 

Letting it slide

Some years ago I wrote an angry post about the way parents seem to assume that they are the only ones who have compassion towards children.  The use of the “as a parent” or “as a mother” precursor to an explanation of why someone feels compassion or empathy for a child or parent in a particular situation.

Lisa’s post over on Life Without Baby prompted me to look at my original post again.  I realise I still feel pretty much the same.  Yes, I still take offence at the assumption I don’t share empathy or compassion.  But I think I have one or two things to say about it again.

I don’t accept that people don’t intend to cause offence in all cases.  The “as a mother” comment deliberately excludes me.  And if they’re saying it to me, then there is offence, and it is possible the person is intending to cause offence.  People like to feel superior.  Parents - perhaps when they feel they're drowning in guilt, debt, anxiety, doubt, love, stress, sleep exhaustion, you name it - seem to like to feel.  But in order to feel superior, they need someone to be inferior.*  And if they’re saying that to me, then they are intending me to feel that way, to feel inferior, to feel less.  Perhaps not deliberately, but somewhere in their consciousness they must understand what they are doing.  I suspect I felt this way in 2010 when I wrote the original post.  I think I was just scared to say this. 

And that’s a difference.  I am not prepared to feel put down any more and just let it slide.  It doesn't serve me well.  And to be honest, I don’t think it serves anyone very well to just let it slide (depending on circumstances of course). 

By letting it slide, it allows parents to keep making non-parents feel less.  By letting it slide, we let them do it, and perhaps reinforce those negative, shameful feelings in ourselves. 

By letting it slide, we stop parents from seeing that in fact we are compassionate.  By pointing out that we too feel the same way (without the fear of these things happening to our own children), I hope they can see that we can play positive roles in their children’s lives, and that perhaps we understand more about their own lives and feelings than they have previously given us credit.  It helps everyone feel more included and understood, less alone, less riveted by shame.

And maybe it helps them fear less, recognising that there are good people out there looking out for their kids.  Because I think there is a lot of fear out there in parent-land.

All of this can only be good for the children too.

So I'm making a promise to you, and to myself.  I'm not going to let it slide any more.  I will, in the future, gently point out that non-parents are capable of loving a child and feeling compassion and empathy too.

Update: An article in our local newspaper reported on a teenager and a man who rescued a young girl from a river in flood.  "We did what we hope any person would do," they both said.  Amazing how just replacing one word - parent with person - makes a situation so much more inclusive, and gives me the feeling that society in general is a much better place.

*   I wrote about that last year, with - I hope - some degree of compassion and empathy.

The rest of my life

No kids?  So what am I going to do with my life?  I often read this sentiment in blogs of those who are either facing the prospect of living their life without children, or who have just entered their No Kidding life.  I asked it myself, and was reminded of this by Lisa on  Life Without Baby.

The previous few years had all been aimed at getting pregnant, and the lifestyle with children.  And suddenly, that wasn't relevant any more.  I felt as if there was a void that needed to be filled with something big, something amazing, something different.  I know I wasn't alone in those feelings. But even though I felt that everything had changed for me, it hadn't really.  I still had elderly parents that needed to be considered, a husband who liked his job (and wanted to be near his elderly parents), a house that needed maintenance (and still does), friends and interests.  So a major lifestyle change was difficult.  

When I look back though, my lifestyle now is different to what it was ten years ago.  For a start, we have travelled much more.  Partly because we have had more disposable income, but also partly I think because we thought "why not?"  It wasn't as if we were waiting for children.  I have a brother-in-law who puts many possible trips on hold because he wants to go with the his "whole family."  So he rarely goes anywhere, as part of his "whole family" is now grown up and living in another country!  He is putting his life on hold for a fantasy that has passed.  We at least had recognised that our fantasy had passed - after all, the passing of our fantasy was dispatched like a brick to the head!

My working life had already changed, as I moved from a full-time job where I travelled internationally, to being self-employed.  Early through that grieving period, I found myself thrust into a leadership role, and whilst it was scary, it was also challenging and interesting and rewarding too.  At the same time, I got some significant contracts as a consultant, and so my working life was varied and interesting and fulfilling.  I also expanded my wings in the volunteer sector, and began writing - something I had always loved and done when I was younger, but which had been overtaken by the business and diplomatic writing of my career.  The differences between my personal and professional writing styles surprised me.  Finding my voice was scary too, but liberating.

I found that I had changed.  I was more confident in my own abilities, but I was also more content.  I knew my own limitations, and for the first time in my life became able to accept them.  I could push them when I needed, but stopped pointlessly beating myself up for these limitations.  After all, I also found myself better able to understand the limitations of others, to see the insecurities or misunderstandings behind the bluster and bullying and verbosity that are so prevalent in board rooms.  Part of this understanding came from the volunteer work I was doing - analysing motivations behind behaviour had always been an interest of mine, and my volunteer work addressed this intensely.  

But part of this understanding too was simply from being in my 40s, with that combination of experience and wisdom that I think comes to us then, if we are prepared to think, to examine ourselves and our motivations and actions, as well as those of others.  Still, I'm not sure I would have achieved this growth if I hadn't been through the losses I had been through.  Sure, as a parent I may have grown in different ways.  But as an adult without children, I had the luxury of time to contemplate the world, and how I wanted to be in it.  And that has brought me a lot of peace.

I never did find though that one amazing thing that would fill my No Kidding life. We look for something to replace the children, but I think what happens is that life fills that void.  You know, the life we're living when we're making plans.  And it can fill the void in wonderful, inspiring, surprising ways.  Tiny ways too.  Like learning gratitude.   That doesn't mean though that I'm not still looking at new opportunities.  I suspect I'll still be looking when I'm 70.  That doesn't scare me though.  In fact, I quite like that idea, because in looking, I'm always learning, I'm always changing and growing and challenging.  

It may look from the outside that everything is the same.  I'm in the same city, same house, and yes, even drive the same car!  (I'd love to move and go off on a grand adventure, but circumstances at the moment don't permit that.)  I'm the same person, with the same values.  But life didn't end when we said good-bye to children, and began a No Kidding life.  And as a result, I have changed, and in ways that make me happier, more content, more confident.  I know that I continue to change.  And I embrace that change. 

Friendship 101

This is a post I have been contemplating for a long time.  I’ve covered some bits before.  But I always come back to it.   And as I begin to write it, I suspect it might turn into two or maybe even  three posts.  So bear with me.

Friends and family are a perennial issue in the IF community.  Friendships and insensitivities and hurt is raised over and over again.  Everyone has a story.  And that's why I want to talk about this again.  Infertility plays havoc with our perceptions of our friendships.  We get frustrated when we don’t get the support we need and want.  We worry that our situations – dealing with IF, loss, adoption, or the fact we don’t have families – means that we aren’t giving our own friends and family the support* that we would normally expect to give.  If things had been different.

When we are hurting most acutely, we feel the lack of support most acutely.  We are raw with pain and shame and despair, and so any misstep by friends or family is a stabbing pain.  We can’t believe their insensitivity, or we feel unloved and uncared for and forgotten.  Or worse, we feel worthless, that our loved ones think we are undeserving of comfort, or that our pain is denied, dismissed, unnecessary.  We are often 100% consumed with our infertility, and so our friendships come under extraordinary pressure to adapt to this change.  What was good about our friendship can get lost under the shifting tectonic pressures of infertility and grief. It is tough.  It is tough for us.  It is tough for our friends to know what to say, how to deal with us.  Too often, as I am sure I have written before, their inability to know what to say turns into silence, and for us, that is often worse than not saying anything at all.

And as a result, our hurt and our pain, and our friends or family members inability to know what to do to help us (or their inability to understand that we were going through pain at all), leads us to reach out, but sometimes in the wrong way.  We’re hurt and angry and upset, and we don’t yet have the perspective that would help us understand.  And some friendships crumble, some in complete destruction, others are permanently damaged. 

I had a friendship that changed during my infertility.  She was there for me at the beginning.  She hugged me when I cried with my first ectopic, visited me in hospital during my second, and brought me books to keep me entertained.  But she brought her toddlers to the hospital, and the books were full of miscarriages or statements by characters that their lives hadn’t been worth living before they had children.  This, at a time when I was in hospital for a lost pregnancy, and was suspected of a cancer that would mean my quests to conceive would be over there and then.  She didn’t think, and to be fair was horrified when I pointed this out at a later date, when I was actually able to laugh at her misfires.  These lapses I could forgive, because I knew her heart was in the right place. 

But over the next years, we drifted apart.  I got tired of being the one who always contacted her.  I felt that I was the childless one with the unlimited time, and that my wish to spend time with her was seen as a burden.  Maybe, maybe not.  But anyway, when I didn't do the contacting, we weren't in contact.  I felt hurt that I wasn't included in her life with her children.  I learned years later she was going through a difficult time too, but one which she couldn't really articulate, and in fact, consciously or unconsciously fought against articulating because that would make it real.  And in our joint pain, we were simply unable to help each other.  I regret that, but I know that I couldn’t have done anything differently.  I don't blame either of us.  We are still friends, but no longer besties.  I do however find that the hurt and rejection I felt then returns easily when I am feeling down.  So the wounds haven’t entirely healed, but I am glad we are still friends.

What did this teach me?  Well, it reminded me that friendships change.  Throughout our lives, if we are fortunate, we have friends.  Sometimes, the friendships are enduring, moving with us through our different life stages and milestones.  Sometimes our friends come to us at particular times, bringing to our lives whatever it is we need of them (and vice versa), and then move on, for whatever reason.  Sometimes we leave our friends on good terms, simply because geography or life experiences are different and separate us.  Sometimes, we leave our friends – or they leave us, in more negative circumstances, leaving us or them or both of us hurt, in pain, confused, angry, let down, disappointed.

But even if separations are less than amicable, with time and distance it is possible for me to step back, and examine my role in the ending of that friendship.  Not to blame, but to learn.  I want to learn from each friendship. 

And one of the things I’ve learned is to appreciate what each friendship gave me at the time.  And that’s wonderful.  Just because a friend can’t support me through some of my issues (the occasional pangs of no kids, for example) doesn’t mean that the friendship is worthless.  It’s not.  As I've written before, if we always enjoyed talking about travel, then we can still do that.  If we felt solidarity in discussions of food and exercise and weight loss, we can still do that.  If we had talked about work, or books, or politics, then we can still do that. My friend and I still have much of what brought us together in the first place.  And that’s a good thing.  Recognising it is even better.

I’ve realised it simply isn’t realistic of me to expect everyone I know to be experts in fertility and grief and what it means to live without children. It doesn’t mean I won’t try to educate them, to make them more aware and more sensitive, if the opportunity presents itself.  Some friendships grow as a result.  But if they don’t, I find that I am able to take their lack of understanding or occasional insensitively less personally than I might have otherwise.  Recovering from hurt is quicker and easier.  Reducing expectations increases satisfaction.  That's Marketing 101.  Perhaps we should also call it Friendship 101 too?  

To appreciate my friendships for what they were, and for what they are now, not for what they lack, is how I want to live my life.  It’s not always easy, but it is rewarding when I manage to do it.  Reminders – perhaps by reading about struggles others are going through, or simply by writing this blog – are good for me.  They teach me gratitude for what I have.  And make me feel loved and appreciated. 

* to be a topic of a future post

Tarred with the same brush

I wanted to add some clarification to my post yesterday.

We all know that people look at us, both within the ALI community and from outside it, and assume that because we didn’t adopt, or take other measures to ensure that we would have children, then we obviously chose not to.  (I’ve written about this before, here – and Justine just wrote a great post here too.)  So no kidding women (women without children), regardless of how we got here, are all tarred with the same brush.  And therefore I was not so concerned with the article’s focus on women who choose not to have children (after all, it is the author’s prerogative to focus where she chooses, and she clearly expressed this in the title).  But I was concerned with with the assumption that if women choose not to be mothers, then obviously they would not have been very good mothers. 

And it was that condescending "there, there, weren't you clever not to become a mother" attitude, with the hidden implication that "you" would have been awful at it, that disturbed me.  Because I think that women who think through their decisions* and weigh up what they want and don’t want, and are prepared to stand up for their beliefs when it is not easy or popular to do so, well, I think these women could be great mothers.  It’s just something they didn’t choose.

Choosing not to be a mother doesn’t mean a woman wouldn’t be great at it anyway, anymore than choosing to be a mother (or accidentally becoming one) means they would be great at it.  I mean, look around!  But the article didn’t recognise this.  In fact its entire premise was the opposite.  And that’s what disturbed me, and motivated me to write.

* kudos to my husband, who made this point on a morning walk yesterday.

Thanking No Kidding Women

Life without Baby posted an article thanking women who choose not to have children.  Kathleen noted that this was a refreshing change from all that pressure and accusation we often feel.  And I agree that it is nice to be appreciated for our lifestyles, not judged.  The writer acknowledges that most probably all we hear is an “array of pro-childbearing responses” to our situation.  She's right. And I appreciate her intentions.

But the article itself made me a little uncomfortable.  Mainly because the author's list of reasons why we should be thanked focused on the fact that we didn’t want to be mothers (it was directed at women who choose not to have children) - and the whole “choice” issue always irks me -  and then implies that we might not have been any good at it after all.  The article references women who should never have been mothers, or women who didn’t enjoy being mothers.  It then thanks us for not succumbing to societal pressure and becoming one of "those" mothers, making the assumption that, as mothers, they were simply not up to scratch.

So even whilst recognising that not all women can or want to be mothers, even whilst thanking these women for making courageous choices, it still felt as if there was some judgement going on.  I certainly felt a little condescension.

So I thought.  What would I have liked the article to say? I guess, first, the title would need to be changed.  Here’s the article I wish had been written.

“To Women Without Children”
 Thank you for your courage.  Your courage to live in a society that will judge you for your decisions and your lifestyle (whether or not you had a hand in those decisions), a society that will condescend and exclude, sometimes consciously, often ignorantly, a society that will never value you as highly.

Thank you for being positive role models, showing that there are many ways to live a good life, and that you don’t have to fit in to accepted norms to be accepted, happy, and indeed, normal. 

Thank you for loving our children, caring about them and for them, for being in their lives.  Thank you for showing them that there is good in the world, that they can rely on more people than their immediate family, that more people love them. 

Thank you for paying taxes that fund my children’s schools and cover their medical costs (including all my maternity costs), and the tax breaks given for families.   

Thank you for taking up the slack at work and in extended families, neighbourhoods and communities, when everyone else is focused on their nuclear families and schools. 

Thank you for being a good example of survival, of resilience, and of acceptance.  

Thank you.”
 

Blogs are like buses ...

... you wait for ages for inspiration, then two or three come along at once.

This year I'm hosting Christmas.  Two of my husband's brothers and their families are returning for Christmas here, with their parents.  I of course am hosting Christmas dinner/lunch, to take the burden off my 90-year-old mother-in-law.  That's okay.  I have it planned, and I have delegated some tasks to my sisters-in-law.  I'm a little nervous though - I'm cooking a turkey, and I've never done that before.

Every year we've hosted, we've asked my in-laws about my husband's aunt and uncle.  Usually if they are in town, they go to another niece's house for Christmas Day, but I have always wanted to give them the option of coming here, However, whenever I have raised it with the in-laws, my curmudgeonly old FIL has always grumbled at the idea.  And, feeling as if it is "their" side of the family and therefore their right to decide (I'm just the cook), I have always urged an invitation be sent.  (In my defense, it's a complicated family dynamic.) But I've never stood up to him, and for that I am ashamed.   Finally I spoke up a few years ago.

I pointed out that in case they haven't noticed, they don't have any children.  And neither do we.  And that when we are old and alone, we hope that if any of our brothers and sisters, or nieces and nephews are nearby, that they will invite us to spend the day with them.  That we won't just be ignored and pushed aside, as they both (aunt is MIL's sister after all) seem happy to do for this elderly couple.  (I have no fears that my sisters, and my sisters-in-law - husband's brothers' wives - would ever do this.) 

I don't know that he had ever compared our situations.  We don't discuss our childlessness with them, but I think they feel for us.  But they aren't very good at feeling compassion for others, and they're certainly not good at expressing it.

And so for the last years, we have just informed MIL and FIL that we are inviting them, and that they have no say in the matter.  (And to their credit, they haven't complained about it - not since my outburst).  This year is the first year A and H are coming.  (They have been unable to come previous years).  I hope they enjoy themselves, and feel part of the family.

PS:  I hope it provides a good example to my nieces and nephews!

"If you don't have kids, you don't understand"

A comment on my previous post referred to the “if you don’t have kids, you don’t understand” comments we are often subject to.  There’s a video doing the rounds on FB – a British comedian doing a skit about the difficulties of raising children, and how people without children don’t know.  “They think they know what they’re talking about,” he says, “but they have NO IDEA.”  Yes, he shouts these words to emphasise the stupidity and ignorance of people without children. 

I've heard variations of this over and over again.  And today, I’m standing up to say that yes, we do know, and we do understand.  No, we may never have experienced parenthood in the way you have.  But we know what you’re going through.  How could we not?  We are constantly bombarded with the messages about how hard being a parent is, and with the accompanying messages “if you’re a parent you are superior/deserve a medal/etc.”  I wish I had a dollar for every time I heard a parent say “no-one tells you how hard it is.” …  Yes, they do.  (I want to shout).  Everyone tells you how hard it is.  I know, how come you didn’t know?  Or perhaps you just didn’t want to know?

For example, we are constantly bombarded with the “you don’t know tired until you have a baby/two babies/etc” message.  We understand that you may have weeks, months or even years of severe sleep deprivation.  It was one of the things I was very worried about (loving and needing sleep as I do) when I was on my quest to have children.  I’ve had to wake enough at 3 am for work purposes to know that a) I don’t – to put it mildly - like it one bit, and b) I would find it hard to cope with on a regular basis.  I’ve had to work with no sleep or just an hour or two of sleep, so I know that I would find it incredibly difficult.  I shudder to imagine how difficult it would be to do that day after day, week after week.  I understand.  I sympathise.  I just haven’t experienced it.

Just as we know that a toddler can be beyond demanding, that teenagers can be downright unpleasant, how worrying pre-teens can be, and that an ill child must be distressing.  We know that.  We've all experienced babysitting or visiting with you and your children, and/or hearing your stories about your children.  We've seen you struggle, often juggling some or all of the above situations at the same time, and we know that there must also be a multitude of times when you've struggled that you haven’t shared with us or asked for support.  We know this.  We haven’t experienced it.  But we can imagine the extent of it.   We spend a few hours in your company with your children, and we imagine those few hours extend into days, weeks, months and years – with better hours/days and with worse. 

You see, just because we don’t have children doesn't mean we are stupid, naive, unobservant or unsympathetic.  We know it is hard.  We know it changes your priorities, your focus, the way you think.  Many of us wanted this.  Yet you constantly say “people who don’t have children don’t understand.”  Why?

I think there are two answers to this.

First, I suspect that parents are saying this to a different group.  When they mean “childless” or “people without kids” they tend to refer to “people who don’t have kids yet.”  The comedy video for example is talking to people who might be thinking about having children.  And many people (not all) focus on the positives of parenthood, not the difficulties, when they’re making the decision to have children.  It is only natural.

I do have to say though that when we are trying to conceive, especially when we are having difficulties, or have suffered loss, we often manage to convince ourselves that everything will be rosy, our lives will be perfect when we get pregnant/baby arrives.  It’s what drives us to continue trying.  Someone recently talked about having her children and then “getting on with the rest of her life.”  As if if her life hadn’t begun yet, even as she went through infertility and growth and job changes.  As if all troubles would melt away once her child arrived.  Whilst most of us know intellectually that having children isn’t the antidote to our woes, in the midst of the trying-to-conceive frenzy, especially in the midst of infertility, it is easy to forget this.  I can’t tell you the number of times I have heard (read) women say that they will never be happy unless they are pregnant or have their baby.  And perhaps it is in response to this rose-coloured glasses view of parenthood that many parents – who themselves feel as if they are deep in the trenches of parenthood - feel the need to say “you don’t understand.” 

Those of us who are on the other side, however, know that having children isn’t all rosy, in the same way we know that not having children isn’t a terrible thing.  In coming to terms with our own situations, we are forced to take off those rose-coloured glasses, to see our own lives objectively and to embrace what is positive.  And in doing that, we become (I believe) much more attuned to the difficulties of parenthood too.  Looking at the positives of our lives helps us heal and blossom.  And in doing this we realise we might be lucky not to have to deal with the many difficulties of parenthood.  In time, we are able to become more empathetic to those who have children.  Until that moment when they say “you don’t understand” and push us away, just when we’re prepared to offer support.

Because the second reason I think parents want to say “you don’t understand” to us, the childless, is more complicated.  There is a well-known human trait that makes people feel good when they make others feel small (studies for example show that people enjoy rewards more when others don’t have it).  It builds some people up, makes them feel superior, makes them doubt themselves less, and perhaps convinces them that they made the right decision, even in the midst of despair (and perhaps doubt) at the problems and exhaustion and worry.  (I’m not saying that being a parent is full of despair.  I am saying that parents frequently and freely admit that there are moments, hours, days, or more of despair alongside the love and pride and joy and all the other emotions of parenthood.) 

Rather than bristling at the condescension, or perhaps I should say more accurately, after I have stopped bristling at the condescension, I prefer to see this another way.  I see it as a plea for empathy, a plea to find comfort from others who have been through this and can say “yes, we know,” a plea to find others helping them feel less alone in finding this difficult.  This explains why the comedy video is so popular.  I can understand that and I feel sympathy for it.

But why, in searching for that empathy, is it necessary to be so condescending?  A condescension and discrimination that is incredibly common, endorsed and legitimised by society in general.  But do parents really want to scorn and push away those who could be their biggest supports, who could give them some adult only time, who could be beneficial influences in their children’s lives?  I don’t know.  I'm sure they don’t know either.  I suspect they’re just too tired, too focused on getting through the day, to realise what they’re doing.