No Kidding nights in July

No, this is not going to be X-rated. No, it's nothing to do with hot nights, or cold nights in my case, in the middle of our winter. Instead, it has everything to do with time zones, sports, and freedom. 

I've spent over the last week watching Wimbledon games. Due to our time zone here on the edge of the Pacific, the main matches all start around midnight or 1 am. If there are two matches I want to watch, I have to try and choose, or risk an entire night without sleep. If there is a big final, like last night, there is only the one match. But one match can still mean almost an entire night without sleep. I grabbed an hour or so on the couch before the final began at 1 am my time. Five hours later, when it finished, I watched all the presentations and speeches. Then when I crawled into bed at 6.30 am, I felt wide awake. Fortunately, the Husband got up shortly after, I had the bed to myself, and he went off to play golf so I didn't have to feel bad about sleeping for a few more hours.

Now, I'm fully aware I am ageing out of the "I wouldn't be able to do that if I had kids" statement. My last pregnancy ended 20 years ago. But it is feasible I could have still had a teenager in the house. I would have had to be quiet at least, I might have felt I needed to get up this morning (Monday) to be with them, or they might have woken me up talking to my early bird husband or getting out of the house to go off to university or work. So it would have been more difficult to indulge my love of Grand Slam tennis matches, even now. And I certainly wouldn't have been able to do it over last ten or twenty years since I stopped working in an office. 

These days, that's all academic. I don't dwell on the what-might-have-beens. I want to focus on the good things. Watching Grand Slam matches is a treat I have allowed myself for years now. I love the excitement of watching something live, as it happens. Being able to do so is a gift. I'm not kidding. 

 

 

 

Does it make us stronger?

What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. A lot of people trot this out to either compliment people who are going through something tough, or give them encouragement or comfort that they can get through it. However, I know a lot of people really struggle with this sentiment, for several reasons.

How can it be seen as a compliment, when we have had no choice but to get through our infertility, loss, grief, or another life event (loss of a partner/relationship, serious illness, etc)? Not having a choice is not something to be praised! We hate this. Who wants to be stronger if we have to go through these traumatic and/or distressing events? It seems to us terribly unfair, but here the speaker is lauding the fact.

It feels as if the speaker doesn’t want to deal with the realities of the situation. That by making such a sweeping statement, they are in fact denying the emotions felt by the person experiencing them. It feels awfully dismissive of their experiences and emotions. When it is said to an infertility/loss patient, we feel as if the speaker doesn’t care, that they don’t want to understand what we are actually going through, and that they can’t really handle the idea that bad things happen for no reason. It feels as if they don’t want to acknowledge the loss that we might be feeling, and don’t even want to begin to try, or to help. It can be very hurtful.

It's not something I’ve ever said to anyone. (I hope!) However, it IS something that is fine to say to ourselves. Eventually. I know I’ve felt that I have come out of infertility and loss stronger than when I began. I think that is inevitable. I feel better able to cope with difficult situations, better able to deal with my own emotions, and those of others. I do feel stronger. But it took time. And it wouldn’t have been helpful when I was in the thick of my grief, my loss, or when I was still clinging on to hope. Because all it tells me is that the person saying this doesn’t really understand, or want to try. It means they don’t consider the fact that whatever it is might not kill you, but it might leave you maimed, scarred, damaged.

A key thing that came out of my own infertility/loss/childlessness experience is that at times I do feel more vulnerable, weaker, less confident than I did before. The damage and scars are still there, though they might not hurt as much these days. And so I am much more aware of my own vulnerabilities, of my mortality, of all the things that can go wrong. That makes me feel weaker, not stronger. After all, the old saying “ignorance is bliss” can be very true. (We probably all remember being ignorant about the risks and realities of infertility, don’t we?) Knowledge doesn’t always bring strength. It can bring fear, hesitance, and a lack of self-confidence. This is all very natural. I see it in myself.

However, at the same time, knowing all this can make me feel stronger, because I am more prepared for things to go wrong. It makes me stronger because, ultimately, I know I can be okay regardless of what I will go through. Even when I know that the experience itself might leave me feeling very vulnerable, distressed, hopeless, afraid – you name it. I’m not blind to the feelings that difficult experiences bring. I’m less afraid of them these days, because they are more familiar to me. I understand I can get through them. I know that I can still find joy, that I can feel delight in life and friends and family and nature, that happiness can return. Yes, there’s a strength in that. 

Indeed, the many gifts of infertility" that I have identified in my No Kidding series here have made me a different, hopefully better, person. Stronger? Perhaps. Maybe that strength was always there. Maybe it is already there in all of us, and only traumatic events bring it out when it is absolutely necessary. But is trauma a reasonable cost of seeing this strength?

Strength, compassion, awareness and acceptance of our emotions might be the byproducts of our experiences. This all comes at a price. One that we would like to be recognised. So it would still be a brave or foolhardy person who would say to me that “what didn’t kill me made me stronger.”

Realities of No Kidding childlessness

I have a good friend here who has no kids. We socialise together quite a bit, and it is a relief to go out with her and her partner, and not feel we have to deal with the kid issue. That said, I'm interested in the kids of most of my friends, and like hearing about their adventures, as they've almost all left home, or at least are finding some independence. That's a freedom of age, when our friends and family who have children once again have time (and inclination) to focus on something other than their offspring. But I acknowledge too that I'm very lucky, and all of my friends have always been able to focus on the wider world, as well as their children. 

Still, there is something about socialising with other No Kidding people that brings a quiet understanding. However, not all No Kidding people are the same. We like talking about our siblings' (and in-laws') children, and their children. But my friend's family lives mostly in the same city. I've met some of them, been to plays and dinner together, and have celebrated when they've achieved milestones. I popped over to her house before Christmas and the kids were showing me the gingerbread houses they had just made with my friend, a family tradition she has been doing with her relatives that is now in its second generation. Her wider family is very close, and she is an integral part of that. She won't be moving any further than the beach.

I don't have that. I have one adult niece who still lives in New Zealand. All the others, on both my side and the Husband's side of the family, live overseas. I have one teenage niece and one adult great-nephew in the country. That's it.  So our present, in terms of relationships with children, look very different, and a lot lonelier. As do our futures, despite the fact that we are all childless.

Too often, you'll hear people suggest that we volunteer with children to fill the gaps in our lives. But this doesn't work. I'm not someone who could work with children, I have no skills to do that, and I'm not sure it would be good for them, or me! I wanted kids, but I didn't want to work with them! Besides, it doesn't necessarily create lasting relationships.So my involvement with children is and has always been very limited. And because of geography, it will continue to be limited. I can deal with that. But from time to time, it is a painful reminder.

I know I am not alone, that many of you may not have siblings, or other children that you live close to and have relationships with. There are no simple solutions. No real solutions to this at all. It's just a fact that reminds me of my situation occasionally. It reminds me that, as a result, I have greater independence to choose what my life will look like, but that independence has both benefits and burdens. We have the freedom to choose where and how we might spend the rest of our lives, and there is no obligation to stay close to family (or no feelings of rejection if we choose to move). But we also know that our choices are the only ones we will have to live with, that we will have to choose what our ''old old age" will look like, and we have to cope with whatever life throws at us on our own. Just another reminder that I can't stick my head in the sand and pretend everything will be okay. But I can plan to make it that way.

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. 

 

Thinking about life when you're childless

In recent conversations over the last few weeks, I have been reminded how readily my husband and I think and talk about ageing, about the natural progression of life (and death), about infirmity and about dying. And I have been surprised by how others do not do this.

In particular, we know we have been forced to think about this in two ways. Firstly, we couldn’t ignore the realities of ageing because we did the bulk of the elder care of his parents, watched their decline week by week by week over 20-30 years, and inevitably recognised that we too would be largely unable to avoid this. It always surprises me how many people aren’t willing to confront this, who think by exercising and keeping healthy they will avoid all the health problems that may crop up in their 70s and 80s, if not earlier. They are in denial, because they don’t want to face the fact that almost all of us will, if we’re lucky enough to survive to old age, have to deal with physical or mental decline. Of course, one of the reasons we were responsible for so much of the elder care was our No Kidding situation. We had no excuses for not visiting, for “not having the time” to care for the elderly parents, to think that a letter or Skype call once a month was sufficient to keep the relationship going.

Secondly, we can’t ignore the realities of ageing because if we don’t plan for our future, no-one will. We can’t rely on children, or even nearby nieces or nephews, because we don’t have any close by. We can’t ignore these issues, of not thinking about where we might want to end up, especially not if we want any sort of choice in the matter, and if we want to avoid the distress and fear we have observed in other elderly people who leave everything too late. Yet our guest seemed to be more concerned about where we would end up when we are dead (ie our ashes), than when we are still alive but in need of help. It is bizarre.

I confronted him about it, mentioning that his inaction might limit his choices when he does need help, that by not thinking about things he was – consciously or unconsciously – deciding to leave the burden on his children, and that it was quite selfish to do so. I also pointed out we didn’t have the luxury of doing this. And now that he knows, it is no longer an unconscious choice he is making to ignore his old age.

He does not even have a Will – can you believe that? He must think he is immortal! We’re not perfect. We know we need to update our Will. And after these conversations, I’m keen to do that early in the New Year.

Ultimately, being childless has forced us to think about these things. Ectopic pregnancies forced me to confront my own mortality, and doing so has brought me some peace. Accepting the randomness of life has made me accepting of whatever may befall us. And the ease of having compassion for others, knowing how easily misfortune can occur to anyone, and knowing that judgement often comes through ignorance and an inability to put  ourselves in other people’s shoes.

Learning to enjoy the little things in life, to feel gratitude, to continue to learn, to try to improve myself, all these things will make my life easier as I age, as they make my life easier now, and as they were a result of infertility and loss and survival. I am not kidding about any of life’s inevitabilities. I’m glad about that. I’m at peace. Whereas this person who wants for nothing materially, who has children and a wife and friends, is uncharacteristically ill at ease with his age and afraid of the future. Maybe, the grass is not always greener on the other side.

Winning in a childless life

Before I came upstairs to write this, I watched a NZ cyclist win gold in the Commonwealth Games road race. It was his fourth of the competition! The race was relentless. There was little time to relax, as the various teams (especially the English) launched attack and counter-attack. He had to pedal furiously to keep up, never give up for 160 kms, and still maintain the strength for a final burst for the win. 

Before that, I watched our netball team play England for the bronze medal. I used to play netball, and I was pretty good if I do say so myself, but rarely watch it as an adult. I find it very frustrating. I want to be out there playing, even though my knees are shot, I'm too old (of course) and a little too short (I'm tall but average tall, not netball tall!). I remember though the joy of leaping in the air and stealing a ball (I played defence positions), and it's hard not to be able to do that anymore. So I watched the defence players with interest, marvelling that most of their attempts are missed as the even taller shoots throw the ball through the hoop over and over again (around 60 times in this game). They fail over and over again. Yet they never give up, because the thrill of thwarting the opposition, maybe one time out of ten or twenty, is worth it, and the reason they play the game.

A day or two ago, I watched the high jump. I used to high jump too, though I never had the spring to be able to reach the heights these jumpers do. I am always awed at their abilities to soar above their heads, and know that they have missed those heights in training and in competition so many more times than we know. I see medal winners miss a height twice, then pull it together and clear it, moving on to the next level. It is the sport. I remember one night at our athletics club. My younger sister was practising something else with a coach, and I had to hang around till she was finished. So I went to the high jump, where there were real pads to land in (see this post on A Separate Life) and practised over and over again. I put it to a height that I knew I could jump, yet had never jumped before. I failed again and again. A very cute senior jumper came over and helped me. I tried not to swoon. And I made the height. Yet it wasn't in competition. It only meant something to me.

All of these athletes made me realise that they focus on their achievements, not their failures or their difficulties. They accept them. They deal with injuries, and give themselves recovery time when it is necessary. They listen to their bodies, and their minds. 

It reminded me of their courage and the pain and hard work behind their glory. It made me think of my childless life. Rather than giving up, I get to look for the joys of this life. I may be knocked back again and again, with all the "as a mother" comments, and "for our children and grandchildren" political statements, and the bias and the condescension and the worry of our daily lives. But I get to celebrate loving my niece, and not being jealous of my sister. I get to be proud of myself when I'm not bothered by babies or children or parents, or when I stand up for myself to parents who never think about those of us without children. And I get to take advantage of the wonderful benefits of this life. The hard parts don't beat me. And I know, from our interactions, that they don't beat you either. I know that we all get up and move forward, even when it hurts, when we're exhausted. We're survivors. Better than that, we make the most of this life. We're resilient. And that means we're all winners! I hope you know that. And celebrate it!