Childlessness in a book that wasn't kidding

I recently read a book recommended by Loribeth. Yes, I've been managing to read again and listen to audiobooks. Yay. You Are Here is by David Nicholls, a wonderful writer, and takes you on a journey across hills and dales in England. There's a discussion of childlessness at one point, in which a character mentions  "the tyranny of proving your life is fulfilled, and not a leaky bucket." (paraphrased as I listened to it as an audiobook).

I've written about that here - the expectation that we have to have a Next Big Thing if we are not having children. When actually Life is our Next Big Thing. And it comes with joys and challenges just like life with children. 

Later in the book, I noted a comment about friends re-emerging from parenthood as their children grew up. That too has been my experience, and I have of course written about it too. That friends are able to be friends again, without the all-consuming need to be with their children. I've even noticed that friends who dropped us years ago because they were only or mainly socialising with other people who had kids, the parents of their kids' friends, for example, have now reappeared. Maybe they realised that those were really friendships of convenience, and once the children were grown, they didn't have much in common? I don't know. But the reappearance has been nice too. Of course, none of that made the fact that we were dropped any easier. Or reduces my new levels of wariness around them too. But being open to reclaim these friendships has been good for all of us.

How nice to see ourselves reflected in a book in a calm, non-histrionic way, when childlessness was not the central feature of the book, but it was a very present, talked about, and acknowledged feature that contributed to the richness of the characters and story. 

 

Childless but not friendless

I remember reading a childless blogger, years ago, writing that they didn’t think they would ever have good, close friends. I found that devastatingly sad. But it is a real example of how complicated friendships with parents can be when we don’t have children, and how many childless people feel isolated when their friendship group all has children around the same time. I’m lucky I haven’t experienced that. Yes, I’ve had friendships drift away as they have had children. I don’t think they ever understood the reason why, or knew how eager I was to be part of their lives and their kids’ lives, though they never really gave me the chance. In recent years, I’ve reclaimed these friendships, and I’m glad about that, but they have never been quite the same.

But fortunately, I have more friends who have children who have remained friends right through the thick of it. They’ve comforted me, made me laugh, distracted me, and included me in their lives. To an extent. My friends’ children were never the focus of our relationships or their sole topics of conversation – our history as friends and/or colleagues, our relationships, our work, our environments, what we were thinking and doing and reading, were always important to my parent friends too. I was always interested in what was going on in their lives, and that, of course, included their children. I was happy to talk about their worries about their kids, and celebrate their achievements. My friends never made me feel as if my opinions weren’t valued, or that my ear was less important simply because it was childless. And now, years later, our conversations are more likely to be about ageing parents than they are to be about their now-grown children.

My attitudes to friendship have changed too. I don’t need every single friend to understand what it is like being childless. But equally, it’s nice that some do. For years, I’ve known that, just as my husband can’t understand everything about me, and neither can my sisters, no one friend can possibly meet all my needs . Likewise, I can’t be all things to one person, so I don’t expect that from my friends. Accepting that makes friendships easier, and more relaxed. Best of all, it doesn’t limit the levels of intimacy possible in a close friendship.

Perhaps because I am childless, my friendships have always been with the person, rather than being second hand through our children, being thrust together through their friends, schools, and sports teams. So I have never particularly worried about whether friends have children or not. I take each person as they are, find connections in what we have in common, and look for other connections to fill the inevitable gaps. I know not everyone can, and some parents find it particularly hard. But that, I figure, is their loss, not mine. 

I guess I have a rule around friendship. We must both take pleasure in each other’s company. We must care about each other’s lives. And for me, that means that if you get to talk about your children or grandchildren, I get to talk about my life without children too, the good and the bad. What matters most are the realities of our lives, our connection, and our shared humanity. That’s universal, whether or not we have children.

 

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. 

 

Time passing

Phew! What with visitors one week, then recovery from visitors, some other social engagements, and no sleep through the French Open in the last week, it's taken me a while to get back to normal. I was going to write something along the lines that taking my time to do this is much easier when I don't have children to worry about. But of course, neither do most of my friends who are my age now too. I just spent the evening yesterday with some friends, all of whom have children, two with grandchildren, and none with any commitments due to children, simply because we're all in our 50s or above and the children are grown (or as close to grown that it barely counts). This is something we forget when we're in the midst of our infertility anguish, because it so often coincides with the family building of our friends, when they can be so busy and focused on their kids. Kids grow up and leave home (usually), and parents become free again.

Recently, elsewhere, the question was posed about what is good about being in our 50s. I commented that, along with the freedom that comes with increased confidence, self-knowledge, and the reduction of career angst, the reclamation of friendships with our parented friends when their kids grow up and become independent can be one of the best things about getting older. Yes, our relationships with those once-departed parent friends them may have changed, especially if we felt rejected or neglected when they made their social lives with other parents. But it doesn't mean that we need to lose the best parts of our friendships - the common interests, or the laughter. We might not be as close as we were, but we can still be part of each others' lives.

I wrote a post about this back in 2015, and find now that it is even more true as time passes. My readers' comments there were interesting, some struggling, and some hopeful. To prove that not all parents ignore their No Kidding friends, two parents noted that the friends they valued the most were the ones who saw them as a whole person, not just as a parent. And another reader wrote that she found she was reclaiming her friends, and that it was "really lovely." Her final comment provided motivation for me to write this post:"I wish that I had read this post five years ago when it felt like all my friends had set sail to the island of children leaving me crying on the shore."

So I write this to offer hope. It really does get easier.

Reposting and Revisiting: Friendship 101

Seven years ago, I wrote about Friendship. It has been a topic that affects all of us as we go through infertility or loss or childlessness. It often has lasting effects, and can be very painful. It's worth revisiting, I think, and I have to say that for me at least, it has stood the test of time.

"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."

 And I have to end that I am so extremely thankful for my internet friendships, the friends I zoom with, have met in real life after first meeting in messageboards or blogs, or hope to meet one day when we can all travel again. Thanks to you all!

Being grateful for No Kidding friends

I had a lovely boozy dinner on Saturday with good friends of ours, who also don't have kids. Instead, we occasionally talk about our nieces and nephews and great-nephews and great-nieces, as we are talking about all sorts of other things. But it is a nice relaxed way to have a conversation. We talk about what to do with all our stuff, and who will clean it up when we go. (She is teaching her niece and great-niece which of her possessions are valuable or historic, and how to tell.) We joked about both needing to stop hoarding, but refusing to stop getting ourselves the occasional treat. Because, as she pointed out, we still need to live and enjoy our lives.

She knows I blog about our No Kidding lifestyle but is busy with a high-powered job, and probably has never read this. It's not her style. She's openly without kids, but not so openly Not By Choice. Both my friend and her partner are great examples of people with a full, busy life without kids. They have family (several generations) nearby, and lots of friends, they mentor young people at work, have hobbies, are active and outgoing, and have an interest in the world. We're lucky to have them in our lives. 

In fact, I often think of a quote of hers when others talk about "having children is the purpose of life." "Rubbish!" she scoffed when I quoted a mutual friend who said this to me as I was between pregnancy losses. 

"There is no purpose in life other than to enjoy the lives we have." 

Believe it or not, when she first said this to me probably 18-19 years ago, I was a little shocked. I hadn't heard anyone else say anything like that before. But gradually the more I thought about it, the more I agreed with her. And every time I remember her quote, I appreciate the lesson. She's right. And I'm glad I get to enjoy life with her in it!

 

Being thankful for connections

I’m thinking it is time to post some positive things about my life, without children. So today, I’m just going to talk briefly about connections.

The first is to thank you all. I’ve made friends blogging here, and on my ectopic site. I often talk about it, but I love it when we cross the barrier from only chatting on No Kidding topics, to being involved (however distantly) in each other’s lives. Sharing book or Netflix recommendations or bread recipes (thanks Klara!), dropping a note to a friend, or meeting each other in real life or real time (eg zoom/Skype/facetime), having already known each other for years. I’ve said many times that internet relationships are real, and I’m grateful for them. It’s a gift that I talk about a lot, but I continue to value you all, and feel the need to express that again today.

Moving on though, I find that as we grow older, we aren’t the outliers in the same way. Many of my friends now have children who are adults and have left home. They have so much more time to spend with us. We are all free and easy (elderly relatives excepting) together. An example was this last weekend, when my husband and I went over the hill (some might say we’re already there! Lol) and spent the night at my friend’s house. We had a lovely catch-up, went out for dinner and a movie (socially distanced), and ended the evening chatting around a fire under a big, starry sky. Their kids are grown, and we chatted about them (my husband actually helped out her son when he joined the same industry years ago) but they were not the focus of their world any more.

Over breakfast the next morning, we got talking about the human need to find meaning in life. Unlike some parents, they did not feel that it was their meaning in life to have children. (Even though they were both devoted parents.) We talked about the need to connect with other humans. At times in our lives it might be harder to do that, when we find many of those people we are around are focused on their children, or when we need support in our later years (and I’ll have more to say about that in due course). But in between, it definitely gets easier, the world feels a bit more inclusive, and there is much fun to be had.

If you’re just starting out in this journey, or if you’re surrounded by people having children right now, know that you’ll find your connections, in real life and online. And it gets easier.

 

 

 

No Kidding 2020 Project: Day 13 - Connect

One of the reasons why I was able to move to acceptance was knowing I was not alone. But that’s not always easy. At the very time we move into a No Kidding life, our peers are often all either pregnant or busy with their children. Couple that with the frequency illusion that has us suddenly seeing pregnancy and parenthood in every context, we feel very much alone. We might not know anyone else without children. Or maybe we don’t know anyone else without children who, we know, wanted them. So we feel alone. We feel different. We And at the same time, we’re probably not being very kind to ourselves either – unforgiving of our bodies, blaming ourselves for not wanting “it” enough or trying hard enough, or for waiting to try for whatever reason, thinking that we didn’t deserve it. This can all be very isolating. We don’t know where we fit.

So one of the best things we can do is try to find our tribe. But how can we do this? Initially, for many, this is online. It might be through social media groups, or forums on a website, by reading blogs, lurking silently, or tentatively asking questions. Maybe you’ve started a blog or Instagram account yourself, hoping to find like-minded people, or just to provide an outlet for your thoughts and feelings. If you’ve found your way here, then you probably know there are lots of blogs and other resources available. You can start by using the links I’ve provided under Other No Kidding Bloggers, and explore from there. You are not alone. The No Kidding world has changed greatly in the last ten or 15 years – we’re everywhere!

Making online connections is a good way to start. There are real advantages to these:

The first is that we can do it anonymously. If you’re still in that phase where you are still figuring out how you feel about your situation, and about yourself, anonymity online can allow you to start feeling your way through the resources, and introduce yourself to the community, without feeling exposed. For me, it saved me, as I really didn’t know who I was, and I certainly didn’t want to “go public” because I didn’t know how I felt about that.

The second is that it gives you time to think. You don’t have to have instant responses to questions, or to worry that someone can see the tears streaming down your face as you react to something – positive or negative. You can read something, go away, and then respond later. You might find, like me, that by writing things out, you find you’re solving some of your own issues.

The third is that you can make real connections online. Sure, they’re rarely “in real life.” We may not be able to link up online with someone we can meet for a coffee (in the No Kidding community at least) and a chat and an understanding hug, but the connections we make are, nonetheless, real and comforting. Knowing that there are others out there who are experiencing the same things that we are helps us feel less alone. And having others who can talk to us, and understand what we are going through, can relieve our everyday relationships from the tension that sometimes arises when they don’t quite understand. I found the depth of the relationships quite astounding. We didn’t know what each other looked like, sounded like, or how we voted. But we often knew their innermost thoughts, and they knew ours. As a dear friend of mine said once, “we get to know each other from the inside out.” I’m still in touch with friends I made back in 2003 after an ectopic pregnancy. I expect to be in touch with them in another 20 years too.

Many of these connections are global connections. There are advantages to this. There’s no danger that you’re going to run into the person down the road (or the odds are really low) when you start talking online. (That may not be a fear of yours, but it was – initially – a fear of mine.) The other advantage is that if you’re having trouble sleeping – which often happens when we are going through trauma – there is always someone awake. That was of great comfort to me.

Not all connections will be online, of course. Maybe, through online groups, you will manage to find groups or friends locally who can provide friendship and support. Maybe you already know people who can help. Regardless of where you meet people, in person or online, the important thing is to make connections. Connections help us feel normal, help us know we are not alone, and teach us that there is life after infertility. They’re a really important part of finding our way out of grief, and moving into our new No Kidding life.