Hope vs Optimism

 I was reading something by Rebecca Solnit on social media the other day.  (She wrote "Men Explain Things to Me.") Whilst she was talking about society and politics, something she wrote stood out to me as being totally applicable to infertility and childlessness.

"But hope for me has never been optimism. Optimism is "everything will be fine ..."  

How many times did we have that kind of optimism thrust back at us during infertility and loss? "It'll work out," or "don't worry, it will be fine" comments from either those who got what they wanted, or those who never had to try to have children, or those who were just uncomfortable with the topic and wanted us to be quiet and be happy so they didn't have to worry about us. This is how I see and define optimism, rather than hope. I know not everyone does.

Solnit continued:

"Hope for me is always that there are possibilities. And we have a responsibility to try to realize (sic) them, and to not realize (sic) the worst possibilities."

This is so true, when we apply it to our No Kidding lives. Hope for the childless is hope for something different, for making the best out of our life, for enjoying what we have, for thriving, not just surviving. The worst possibility for us is to always focus on what we lost or never had, rather than our current lives. Because then we will live a life that is sad and lonely. Or to refuse to accept our diagnoses and prognoses, and live on unrealistic optimism which puts our lives on an indefinite hold, until age catches up with us. I also include ignoring our situation or belittling it as unimportant, or being marginalised, is one of those negative possibilities. Someone going through infertility always seems to think that the worst possible outcome is to be childless, but they are so focused on what they want, thinking about an alternative future without children is too scary for them. And so they don't see or (often) choose not to see what other wonderful possibilities there can be in a No Kidding life, or the changes we can make for ourselves and for those coming after us. 

There are so many opportunities to have a good life, to change people's attitudes, to embrace our situations. Simple optimism doesn't really address these.  But hope does.

I tried to explain some of this to a friend a few months ago when talking about our situation now. She was preaching the importance of optimism, and how important it is to recovery and even survival. I am  aware of the studies that show a positive outlook can be beneficial. But to me, you can be positive and feel gratitude, life your life positively and have better quality of life, but at the same time and prepare for the worst whilst appreciating and enjoying what you have. 

I don't agree however that blind optimism is beneficial. It might be fine if you're not aware of realities, of statistics, of science, or prognoses. But if we are people who like information, then we can't ignore science and facts. And so blind optimism goes against our intellects, and even our instincts. It doesn't prepare anyone for what is coming, and most importantly to me, doesn't necessarily allow you to feel gratitude for what you have in the moment, because you're only looking to the future you want, not the future you are going to have. We can be realistic, but still have hope. 

And being realistic doesn't have to be negative either. It winds back around to that idea of acceptance. Acceptance means you're not fighting against a prognosis (eg childlessness), even if you maintain hope that the statistics might fall in your favour. It just means you're not wasting energy railing against things you can't change. That your focus is not negative, but positive on the things you can control, the opportunities that are still open to you, and the life you have left to live and how you want to live it. Hope allows you to make changes that will help you, or others. I believe that being positive in this way improves our quality of life. Optimism doesn't necessarily do that. And I believe that it applies to those with serious or terminal illnesses, just as it applies to infertility and childlessness, and just as it applies to societal attitudes or political situations. 

Interestingly, I searched my blog for the word "optimism." I've used it under ten times in 15 years! But hope - the word "hope" comes up all the time. 550 times, to be exact. Even a post Optimism vs Pessimism really talks about the word and concept of hope! Maybe I shouldn't be quite so pedantic or rigid, though. Maybe I need to simply ask the question, "optimistic for what?" And that's where hope comes in.
 

 

Looking back on the early years

Something I saw or read or heard last week got me thinking about the early years of loss and grief and pain, and how different life feels now.

I haven’t forgotten. I can still see that younger <Mali> clinging desperately to the internet relationships she’d made who got her through many of the hardest days and the absolute distress she/I felt when our internet went down for a few days (horror – can you imagine that happening now?), the loneliness of being ‘other,’ the shame and the guilt, the lack of hope she/I felt for my future. I remember the gut punch of opening a cupboard and seeing the folic acid  bottle that I had kept “just in case.” And I remember the almost staggering shock at the realisation that I would be “one of those people” who didn't fit into mainstream society.

I think it’s important that I mention this some 20+ years later, because I want anyone who might find this site to know that it was never “easy” for me, for my readers and commenters, for any of us. I can and do remember that without pain – which is, if you might recall, how I define “getting over it.” Not that the pain doesn’t arise from time to time, not that there are never ouch moments, not that the world doesn’t make it easy for those of us who are living a No Kidding life. No, simply that I can talk about and remember those years largely without pain. The Mali who went through those emotions is different to the Mali* who writes here now.

It gets better. So much better. Life is pretty wonderful now, even the difficult parts. That’s because I embrace it, because there is no other choice. There’s so much to be grateful for, to appreciate, and yes, even to relish in our No Kidding lives. I don’t know if I’d have believed it back at the start. In fact, I think I might have fought against the idea, as I have seen others fight against it over the years. But simply deciding to look forward, to have hope for something new, and to embrace life honours the pain of the Mali of 20 years ago. She/I deserves to enjoy life now. And so do you!

 

 * Apologies for talking about myself in the third person, but it seemed appropriate, because the Mali of the early 2000s is not me anymore.

Acceptance in fiction

I recently read Red Clocks by Leni Zumas. Huge thanks to Jess for reviewing and recommending it. It looks at five women – each dealing with different issues around motherhood, including being single, assisted reproduction, wanting to complete your family when a spouse doesn’t, an unwanted pregnancy, abortion, adoption, and more. I loved it. I loved the presentation of the different perspectives, each of them valid, each of them real. (I also love the title.)

One character in particular, who is trying to conceive but trying also to accept that she may not, explores the thinking processes with which we are probably all familiar.

“Acceptance, thinks the biographer, is the ability to see what is. But also to see what is possible.”

That really sums it up. We don’t have to have liked “what is.” But we have no choice, and therefore looking forward to see what is possible makes our life meaningful. And not to see what is possible, but only to mourn what is not possible, is a tragedy. A loss of two lives.

The same character later:

“How can she tell her students to reject the myth that their happiness depends on having a mate if she believes the same myth about having a child?”

and

“There are millions of things the biographer will never do that she doesn’t pity herself for missing. (Climbing a mountain, cracking a code, attending her own wedding.) So why this thing?”

I’ve listed the things I’ll never do a number of times. The things I’ll never do because I won’t be a mother (here and here), but also those other things I’ll never do in an old blog here. Like learn to ski, sing confidently, be fluent in a language other than English (which is not to say I haven’t tried), not be afraid of heights, and a myriad other activities that I can’t do. I mourn some of them from time to time (I’d love to be able to ski), but just accept others, and even embrace others I am glad I never did.

At the end of the book, the same character recognises that she “wants more than one thing.”

“She wants to stretch her mind wider than “to have one.”
Wider than “not to have one.”
To quit shrinking life to a checked box, a calendar square. ...
To see what is. And to see what is possible."

I like the fact that this character asks questions of herself, even if for much of the book she isn’t quite ready to give herself the answers she knows are there. Because the character is still very much in the yearning stage, but starting to see what might be beyond that. If there were more chapters, or a follow-up book, then the character could and should develop further. That she could come to embrace “what is possible” and accept the “I will nevers” as dreams that were lost, in order to make way for dreams to come. I’ve seen it happen in myself, and I’ve seen it time and time again with women online, first in my support group, then online with blogs and other communities. We do move on. We do accept, and we live and love the life which is possible.

 

Carrying it well

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

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

Carry it well, by Sam Fischer

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

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

 

Finding understanding unexpectedly

I love it when bloggers review books. It sometimes leads me to wonderful books I would never have read. Thanks to Loribeth’s review of Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason, I had it on my library wish list, and it popped up in the last week, so I read it. (Given that I have only read 22 books this year, when I had been aiming at 35 at least, that was quite a feat in itself!)

I won’t review it here (Loribeth did such a good job of that), except to say that although it was dark, it was very readable, and not too depressing. There were moments of humour, and some very likeable characters (and some much less likeable, though the reasons for that became apparent at the end), and I read it in just a few days. The reason I am mentioning it here though, is because the issue of wanting or not wanting, having or not having, children became a key point of the book as it went on. And there were a few quotes that I thought were exactly right.

This paragraph, written in the words of the main character, is so perfect. It reflects a number of my experiences in telling people I didn’t have children. It was lovely to read, to laugh at the parented people who apparently say the same things the world over, and to, completely unexpectedly, feel that someone else understands.

“When you are a woman over thirty, with a husband but without children, married couples at parties are interested to know why. They agree with each other that having children is the best thing they have ever done. According to the husband, you should just get on with it; the wife says you don’t want to leave it too late. Privately, they are wondering if there is something medically wrong with you. They wish they could ask directly. Perhaps, if they can outlast your silence, you will offer it up of your own accord. But the wife can’t resist – she has to tell you about a friend of hers who was told the same thing but as soon as she gave up hope … the husband says bingo. In the beginning, I told strangers I couldn’t have children because I thought it would stop them from continuing beyond their initial enquiry. It is better to say you don’t want them. Then they know straight away that there is something wrong with you, but at least not in a medical sense. So the husband can say, oh well, good for you, focusing on your career, even if, to that point, there had been so little evidence of a career being focused on. The wife doesn’t say anything, she is already looking around.”

That last line is a killer. Ten simple words perfectly explaining our isolation, regardless of the reasons why we don’t have children.

Another quote talked about coming out of grief and loss, and putting it in some perspective:

“I could see what I’d had now. Everything people want in books, a home, money, to not be alone, all there in the shadow of the one thing I didn’t have.”

I think most of us can recall being “in the shadow” of the one thing we didn’t have, the thing that had taken over our lives. It’s why I don’t really like the explanation that grief doesn't diminish, that it stays with you but you learn to live with it, as life grows around it. I think our lives are always there. But for varying lengths of time, grief can be so large and so dark that it puts everything else into shadows, in the shade, and we forget what we have. Eventually, as time passes and as we allow ourselves to heal, the shadow begins to clear, and our losses take their place with all the other aspects of our lives.

Finally, I loved this so much, because it is, essentially, the message of this blog.

“You were done being hopeless.You were done, you were done, you were done being hopeless.”

I've been there. I hope you have all been there. And the best thing is that we all found new hope elsewhere.