Childless, and now, Single

My husband died late last month. It still seems unbelievable to write it, let alone say it or live it. In the end, things happened quite quickly. We spent a (largely) peaceful week or so in the local hospice, with (mostly) wonderful staff and volunteers, and space for family and friends to visit, and a nice view across a valley, much like life here at home. I was able to stay with him the entire time, which was a comfort to us both.  

My sister and brother-in-law, who had stayed with me just a week or so earlier when he was in hospital, and had fed me and supported me and chauffeured me when I was exhausted, jumped in their car on very short notice to drive seven hours to be here to support me. They were amazing, took over everything, made the hard phone calls, organised the small gathering we had to honour him, and helped organise people too. Other family were here, and after they all went home about 12 days later, friends have been checking in on me. I have been lucky to have that support. 

But having so many people around so intensely was at times overwhelming. I felt I had no time to grieve. But maybe that's why we do it that way. The brain and heart has to catch up with reality. And now that I'm alone, I can mourn freely, whenever the moment hits me, knowing that I can also be strong around others.  

One thing that has surprised me is that receiving messages, texts, emails, whatsapps etc, having actual conversations chatting about anything, makes me feel much less alone. They are real connections, and very important. Physical presence hasn't been essential every day, if I've been chatting to my sister-in-law in Australia, or my friend in Thailand, or my sister in the north. Messages are also much easier to respond to, when I weep at the drop of a hat. (When writing this, for example.) Responding to heartfelt messages takes a toll though, so I am doing that very slowly.

Thanks to neighbours and wonderful blogging friends, my freezer is almost overflowing with food. Cooking is not so much the problem. Going out to the supermarket is. I went once, and was surprised how hard it was - walking past his favourites, picking up only enough for me, answering questions at the checkout. So knowing there are ready-made meals waiting for me is a great relief. I am extremely thankful for their support. 

I have a long list of things I need to do. Some of it feels overwhelming. Some of it is routine. But it is all hard, though I'm trying to force myself to get at least one thing done each day. I'm not sure how soon or how often I will be able to write here again. I might need the outlet, I might need privacy. 

We were together since our university days. We grew up together.  We shared everything. Together we learned and explored - ideas, activities, and the world - in ways that we might not have done apart. I am who I am because of him. But now I have to learn to be alone. 

 

Gifts of Infertility Series - # 23 - Our Marriage

I’m slowly coming to the end of this Gifts of Infertility Series. The one big issue I haven’t yet touched on, the issue that I don’t write about often on this blog because it’s not just my story, is that of our marriage.

Going through infertility and loss was incredibly stressful. It was stressful for me, making me question who I was; it was stressful for my husband, unable to do anything to help (and whose hair went grey over the year of our first and second losses), and it was stressful on our marriage. We had both changed in this process, and we were both finding that life together wasn’t going to be what we had hoped.

We’d been together a long time by the time we faced infertility. We’d had our ups and downs, made many compromises, and were looking forward to having children together. When that didn’t happen, we could have taken it out on each other. But we turned towards each other; we mourned together.

We tried to comfort each other, and - knowing that words wouldn't help - we rediscovered the real value of touch. Not in a sensual way (though that was still there), but in an intimate, caring way. Simple hugs, or a touch as we passed, reminded each other we cared, that there was a place we could feel safe, with a person who would love us no matter what. We learned that even when words are too hard to get out, emotions too difficult to express, a touch can speak volumes.

We showed patience with each other, more than ever before, and learned to focus almost exclusively on the positive, on what we had together, on what we loved about each other, and on what made us smile, or laugh. We learned that life can hit you with sadness when you least expect it, so we should embrace happiness with joy and enthusiasm when we have it.

As I learned to take care of my own feelings, I became more acutely aware of my husband’s feelings. He didn’t react the same way as I did, but that was okay. I didn’t place any expectations on how he should behave. (Though some of this was instinctive, much of it came from the advice of a few wise women who had been through this before.) This was helpful, as I think the burden of his overwhelming sadness at the same time as my own might have been too much to bear. We shared with each other, but we also protected each other. My friends, and my online friends, gave me outlets to share my grief and sadness, without expecting him to be all things to me. Because he was grieving too, and as we all know, that is a lot. So he didn’t really start opening up about his feelings until he saw a definite improvement in my demeanour. He felt that he could do this when he felt I could cope with his grief. I think too he also learnt from me that opening up was okay, and that grieving was okay too.

Ultimately, I think our losses and difficult no kidding journey in those first years helped forge our relationship into something even stronger. We turned to others, but in doing so we didn’t turn away from each other. Yes, we were lucky. Not all couples are able to come through this with a deeper, stronger, kinder relationship. But you know, my observation is that most of us do. It's a lovely feeling too, knowing that we're together because we want to be, not because we feel we have to be.

When we travelled a couple of years ago for five months, some people sounded puzzled that we could go five months with each other as company, as the only people we talk to, as our social fun, and emotional support. They joked that they were surprised we hadn’t killed one another, which of course said much more about their relationships than about ours. Yet the truth is, we didn’t find it an effort at all. Once we got home, it was also another year before my husband started getting work more regularly, so we also had a lot of time together after the trip. I did say to some people, perhaps only 50% joking, “there is such a thing as too much togetherness.” But actually, we don’t really have issues being together 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

Our relationship is probably the beneficiary of the “no kidding” factor in our lives. We both feel this way. We don’t have to be parents together, so we don’t have to have battles about different parenting philosophies and styles (and believe me, we would have had a few battles). We don’t have to crawl in bed exhausted from looking after children, wrestling with toddlers or teenagers, or juggling our annual leave so we can look after the children in school holidays. We don’t struggle to find time for ourselves as a couple. On the contrary, we need to be sure we find time for relationships with other people, and give each other some breathing space.

As a couple without children, we are able to just “be.” It doesn't mean we don’t have difficulties. But having been through some tough times, and having survived these, we are able to know each other in a different way than I suspect we would have if we were parents. For that, for our close relationship now, I am very grateful.

Life is easier ...

Recovering from my surgery has been slow but steady.  Not there yet, but on the right track, which is good.  My husband has been good - with hardly a complaint (okay, a few complaints) - about doing things to help.  He is adamant that I shouldn't do too much too soon.  I think when it actually registered that my blood count had been dangerously low, requiring blood transfusions over about 14 hours across two days. he got a bit of a shock.  To be fair, we both did, though more in hindsight. So he is keen for my recovery to go smoothly.  He claims he's adding up all the favours I've asked of him, and is looking forward to me repaying them.  I said he has to put them in the bank as insurance against some time when he will get sick/need surgery, and I have to be the chief driver/cook/bottle-washer/errand runner/muscle.

So I've been doing very little.  The odd bit of cooking or making lunch, tidying up the kitchen a bit (though no bending allowed which makes it harder), walking around and around the living room to get some gentle exercise (if I go out I have to climb, and that puts too much pressure on the abdomen and pelvic floor), catching up on recorded TV (making my way through House of Cards Season 1), binge watching Season 2 of The Bridge, and ... an indulgence ... binge watching Season 1 of How I Met Your Mother (because I've never watched it before).  I will be watching the rest.

I thought recovery would be no problem, because I would have the internet, and I could use the time to write.  But sitting here at the computer in my office is not entirely comfortable, and I'm not supposed to do it for too long because of the pressure on my abdominal muscles.  And reading ... well, I didn't anticipate the severe brain fog from the anaesthetic (hence all the TV watching). Just this week it has lifted, and I've been at last able to read a couple of books, and may return even to The Luminaries.

And it made me realise how much harder it would have been if I had had children.  Being able to take it easy, concentrate on my recovery, and sleep when I need to sleep is, I suspect, something that many women in my position can only imagine.  That said, many women my age have adult children who can help out too, so I guess it goes both ways.  Still, I'm thankful that I am able to concentrate on me at this time.  I don't think it's selfish, I think I am lucky.  And right now, I need to see the advantages of my situation.

Talking with the husband

Tonight is our last night in Puglia.  Tomorrow we head for Rome, the airport, and fly out on Tuesday.  That will be the end of three wonderful months in Italy.  Three months with my husband that form part of an experience we never expected to have.  Three months where we actually didn't rip each other’s head off, though of course there was a bit of yelling, usually over the issues of travel planning, or navigation.  Fortunately, yelling like that is quickly forgotten.

I've had friends and family joke about how often we have wanted to kill each other.  And yes, probably the answer has to be “sometimes” if we’re honest.  But when some people say this to us, they sound puzzled that we could go almost four months (since we left home) with each other as company, as the only people we talk to, as our social fun, and emotional support.  Yet we have. 

And we were talking about it tonight, as we were at dinner tonight.  We watched a couple – younger than us – struggle to make conversation.  And we thought about their lives – probably busy, maybe difficult financially, almost certainly with children.  And we realised that our relationship is probably the beneficiary of the “no kidding” factor in our lives.  We don’t have to be parents together, we don’t have to have battles about different parenting philosophies and styles (and believe me, we would have had a few battles), we don’t have to crawl in bed exhausted from looking after children, wrestling with toddlers or teenagers, juggling our annual leave so we can look after the children in school holidays, and never finding time for ourselves as a couple.

As a couple without children, we are able to just “be.”  It doesn't mean we don’t have difficulties.  Dealing with no income when we get home will be a struggle, and is sure to put strains on us.  Stress and foreign situations can be difficult too at times, and health issues are always a worry.  But we are able to know each other in perhaps a different way, in perhaps a deeper way than I suspect we would have time to do so if we were parents.  And for that, for our close relationship now, I am very grateful.  (And I think he’s okay with it!)

What next?

Many women say that they have only ever wanted to be mothers.  And they feel lost when that turns out not to be an option.  Whilst I have never said that I only ever wanted to be a mother, I too felt lost when that turned out not to be an option.

This week, Kathleen on Life Without Baby pondered the "what next?" question we all find ourselves facing.  She said:

As I grieve the loss of my dreams of motherhood and family, I sometimes get really stuck. I can’t figure out what to do with the next week let alone the rest of my life. Do I focus on my career? Do I become my community’s most giving volunteer? Do I challenge myself to break the marathon record for my age group?

When a big life goal - whether you've held it for your entire life, or simply the years in which you were trying to conceive - is taken away as an option, we often feel that we need to replace it with something equally big. How do we save the world, make a difference, feel as if we've achieved something, and leave our mark on the planet if we're not going to be a parent?  We feel a huge loss, and a huge pressure to fill this void. That pressure comes from ourselves.  But from others too.  "Are you going to do something else now?"  "You must have so much free time without having children, how do you fill it?"  Etc.  Etc. 

I know I felt this void, and this pressure, in my case largely self-imposed.  I wanted to change the direction of my life completely.  I wrote a list of all the things I dreamed of achieving in my life.  And I wanted my husband to write a similar list, and see where we over-lapped, or how we could help each other to achieve these other big goals.  My husband - not particularly into such things - never wrote his list, and to my frustration I felt as if we were drifting along for 5-10 years.  But we didn't actually drift, as he has pointed out.  He had a great job and was happy, I achieved some really interesting things career-wise, and also in other fields.  We were able to stay in the city to be near elderly parents.  I was able to support my mother during and after the death of my father.  We travelled to some amazing places, places I had always wanted to visit.  I found that I could help people, and  I know I made a difference in their lives.  And yet that was something I fell into, unplanned, yet enormously rewarding.  I discovered (or remembered) too how much I liked writing when I found blogging (way back on my first blog).  Whether this ever comes to anything or not, it is something I enjoy.

Best of all, I found peace in the little things in life, as Kathleen has suggested. Yes, I loved my travel and trips and some of the professional achievements, and I wouldn't be without them.  But I also appreciated the little things in life:  dinner with friends, cooking new dishes, writing a simple blog post, going to the gym, sitting with a coffee on the harbour on a beautiful or stormy day.  I found that I didn't envy the huge achievements of others, because I know what that costs them.  My ambition now is more about what matters to me, than how I look to others.  I feel sorry for those who have only one big goal (career, money, family), and who base their happiness on whether or not they achieve that.  They judge themselves harshly, and yet without that goal - whether it is impossible to achieve, or is taken from them - they wonder, what else do they have? 

Perhaps these thoughts are a result of my age.  But they're not unique to those of us without children.  I look at people whose children are growing, have already left home or will leave home soon, or those who have retired, or lost their jobs (like us), and they wonder what they will do next too.  They've never had to think about their lives, and often flounder around looking for a purpose, or worse, grieve that their lives have no purpose now their children are grown/their jobs are gone.  Sound familiar?  We just had to do it earlier.

So perhaps the answer is simply to realise that sometimes the best things in life are those that aren't planned. And that life isn't a failure if we don't reach the big goals.  All we need to do in life is make sure we live the life we've got.

Delayed gratification is over-rated**

My parents’ generation here in New Zealand adhered to the principles of the Protestant work ethic - my father-in-law in particular. He believes the point of life is to work. Your duty is to work. Leisure is just an excuse for laziness. Extravagance is wicked. Etc etc. I have watched him work, and retire, and don't see that this belief in these principles have brought him much happiness. Perhaps they did when he was at work, and had children at home. But not in the last 20+ years.  Despite that, delayed gratification is always portrayed as a noble state. Not just by him, but by a lot of society in general.  

On the other hand, instant gratification has always been portrayed as being selfish, or rash, or extravagant, or indulgent. All very negative connotations. Yes, I know all the arguments, and all the research about the advantages in store for the child who chooses to wait for the marshmallow. But you know, I've waited for the marshmallow long enough. I waited for the marshmallow children, not rushing into anything, waiting till we were financially stable, and until everything felt right, only to find that I'd probably waited too long. As a result, I'm no longer a fan of delayed gratification.

My ectopic pregnancies reminded me that I am very mortal. Infertility and subsequent health issues reminded both my husband and I that, whilst we have been very fortunate in life, we are not invulnerable. Anything could happen to us at any time. I see that in the lives of friends and family, and every night on the evening news. We never know when that texting driver is going to ram into us, when an earthquake or cancer or something we've never heard of might strike, when our lives might change irreversibly, or end completely.

So whilst planning is still important to us, we don't defer our gratification to some distant time when we will have more money, better health, more time etc. Because we know that we might never have more money, time or better health than we do right now.  Sometimes we succumb to the instant gratification = bad pressure, and feel guilty. We look back at our international travel the last ten years, and shudder when we work out how much it has all cost us. But we also know how much it would have cost to continue with IVF and to raise children, figure that we're breaking even, and shrug and book another trip! But I know others consider us to be extravagant. After all, we’re not rich.  But are we extravagant? Maybe. But does that mean we are bad, selfish, indulgent?  I don’t think so, even if others do.

But the work ethic proponents also believe that we should "never put off tomorrow what you can do today." So I want to argue that, within reason, we can apply that to leisure and lifestyle issues as well as hard work (or doing my taxes). Shouldn't we appreciate what we have, who we have, in our lives today, rather than waiting till tomorrow to appreciate them? Or worse, to tell those we love how much we appreciate them? In No Kidding terms, shouldn't we embrace our lives today, rather than waiting till tomorrow, next month, next year?

I've been thinking about this because my husband is being made redundant. We have two choices of action.  We could run around furiously and get jobs or contracts that make us miserable but bring in some cash. We could worry, panic, and stress about the future. We could choose to hunker down and be conservative. We have friends who have counselled us to do this. My in-laws will definitely counsel us to do this. (Or they will gossip about our recklessness behind our backs).  

Or we could say "let's make lemonade" and take the opportunity to do something completely different, even if just for a few months.  And that's what we're most likely going to do.  Because ultimately, we are now more comfortable with the present than the future.  We're not actually reckless, and we're not terrified of the future either.  But we acknowledge that the future might not come as we plan it, and the present is here and now and needs to be lived.  And so that's what we're going to do.

And I look back, and know that my infertility history, as well as more recent difficulties, helped me come to this position. I'm comfortable with it.  I’m going to take my gratification now, thank you very much.  I am not going to wait.*

* All will be revealed, once decisions have been made.  

** For those of you who follow A Separate Life, apologies for the double posting.

Savouring the moment

My husband celebrated his birthday on the weekend.  Since we married many many moons ago, we have always done something special on our birthdays and anniversaries, and the only times we haven’t have been if a) we’ve been ill, or b) on a flight somewhere exciting.

So I booked a fancy restaurant, one we’ve been to before but haven’t visited for ... um ... too many years to remember.  (We’re guessing at least seven.)  We went on Saturday night, keen to avoid the Sunday night Mother’s Day Brigade on his actual birthday.  Saturday nights is their degustation night.  I booked the six course menu, as the nine course seemed just too much.

We got dressed up, took a taxi (so as not to be tempted to drive home after too much alcohol), and ordered a glass of champagne on arrival.  The restaurant is in an old Bank building, with ceilings double height, large Greek Corinthian columns surrounding the main room, and a grand bar; suitably luxurious surroundings to make my husband feel special.  The service was impeccable, as was the food, and matched wines.  A tiny serving of crab on a transparently-thin wafer whet our appetites (and not included in the six courses) and then, over the next two and a half hours, we savoured salmon with horseradish cream, paua ravioli, venison with beetroot risotto, rack of lamb with pea gnocchi, a divine divine brie with a fig compote (almost our favourite course), and a selection of chocolate desserts with peanut butter ice-cream.  Fortunately the servings were small enough that we didn’t feel stuffed, and the matched wines included half glasses as well as full glasses, so we were able to stand without wobbling at the end of the meal.  The price was what we expected, but we got a discount by using a gold card for an entertainment club, so we felt as if we’d had a bargain.

We didn’t have to rush home on a deadline to baby-sitters, or to tip-toe into the house scared we'd wake the kids.  We could sleep in on Sunday morning, knowing we didn’t have to rise early for young children, or to ferry older children to sports activities.  We didn’t have to save the money for school fees, or a child’s birthday present, or music lessons.  We simply enjoyed an evening, and celebrated our relationship.

What about the men?

I got a few comments on my Huff Post piece saying “what about the men?”  They ran rather sarcastically along the lines of “men don’t count, only women’s feelings count, everyone forgets the man” etc etc.  And I guess, if you’re coming into either my blog or read that article, you might think that.  I mean, I rarely talk about my husband on-line.  I don’t do it on A Separate Life, I don’t do it on Facebook, and I don’t do it here.  Even when he is mentioned, he’s “my husband” or simply “him/he.”

The thing is, it was my choice to go on-line to talk about my life, not his.  He struggles to even read my blogs.  He’s only on Facebook so he can see photos of relatives, he doesn’t even know what a status update is, and he can’t imagine anything worse than writing for fun!  He’s been selectively private about our infertility.  (He hasn’t discussed it with his family, but he has discussed it with a friend of his who has gone through infertility.)  And of course, his experience with infertility has been different to mine.  He’s watched me go through extremes during our marriage – initially very pro-contraception, right through to the cycle charting, the IVF injecting, and the thoughts of adoption or using donor eggs.  He’s watched me go through physical risk and emotional turmoil, at the same time coping with his own emotions of loss.  That’s his experience of infertility, and whilst I think I understand it somewhat, I know I don’t understand it 100%.   

His experience of infertility, and indeed his experience of living with no kids, is his experience, not mine.  I respect that.  I know that it is his story, not mine.  And I know that his story is not my story to write.  

Grateful Friday

So much discussion around infertility is about what we’ve lost, about pain and grief.  But we don’t have a monopoly on that.  No, this isn’t another Pain Olympics discussion.  This is simply a fact of life.  Yesterday my husband heard that a friend of his, who we knew has been battling the return of melanoma, is to be given no further treatment against this very aggressive (and sadly very prevalent) cancer.  She said “it’s a case of each day as it comes, sorting my stuff out, and setting up X (her son) for the future.”  And so last night, as I was frying onions and revelling in that delicious aroma, I knew she was figuring out how to tell her son.  And I thought that I owed it to her to do as she is doing – to take each day as it comes, and to be grateful for what I have.

So today, on this autumn Friday, I am grateful for :

1. My husband
2. Frying onions
3. This lovely autumn we are having
4. The tui chattering away in the trees outside my window
5. The morepork I heard in the trees last night
6. The fact I can see and hear our native birds
7. Our slightly wacky, in-need-of-maintenance, but interesting house
8. The sun streaming through the windows, warming the house
9. The beautiful views from my house (check out the header image on A Separate Life)
10. Friends – in real life and virtual
11. The fact that my last post resonated with so many people
12. That after a few years of hard work and investment, the company I used to Chair is on the verge of a big contract
13. My health – because I’m feeling okay right now, and I will not under-estimate the importance of this, not now
14. The fact I could – if I chose - buy whatever I wanted at the supermarket today
15. The good quality, reasonably-priced, delicious Sauvignon Blanc that I plan on drinking tonight ...

... and much, much more ...

Don't dwell

The article referred to in my previous post made a second point I want to address.  After lambasting grieving parents for sharing their grief and talking about their loss (instead of pretending that nothing ever happened and that they never lost anything), the article author went on to further accuse parents of prolonging their grief by talking about it.  

First, this comment assumes that people who don’t talk about their grief don’t in fact feel it.  That they don’t find, ten years later, something triggers their grief and they have a melt-down, or even break-down, because they were never able to grieve in the first place.  That they don't live in sadness every day because they have no-one in their lives who understands.  It assumes that a brave face means everything is okay.  And again, it blames the individual for feeling grief in the first place.

Secondly, when I was going through my grief – both for my two ectopic pregnancies, and then for the loss of my fertility/chance of becoming a parent – I found tremendous support on-line.  I was able to share my feelings, and know I was heard.  The support I received, the warmth, understanding and love was healing in itself.  Yes, we talked about our losses, but we also talked about recovery, about what we found helped us, and together we emerged out of our grief, helping each other as we inevitably slipped from time to time.  We shared our wisdoms, debunked myths, and gradually also became beacons of hope for those mired in those early dark days of their loss.  This was a good thing.  It meant I could get on with my IRL life, because I knew there were people who cared, who I could talk about things with, on-line.  It meant that when my friends or family or husband were uncomfortable with my grief, there was someone on-line who could help me.  It gave me protection in the semi-anonymous internet from feelings of shame and pity that I didn’t want following me in my real life.  It was nothing less than a life-saver.  And I think I am a lot healthier and happier today because of that. 

The other point of being able to share (not over-share) on-line is that I didn’t have to share every aspect of my grief with my husband.  He was going through his own loss.  But at the same time, he felt my grief – grief so out of character, grief that changed me and turned me into someone neither of us knew – acutely.  He took it on himself.  I could see that.  It wasn’t fair for him to have to deal with this, with me, on his own.  The fact that I could open up and off-load to others helped him to grieve himself.  I noticed that it was only when my mood lifted that he felt he could open up to me about his sadness.  He needed to be able to do that.  And he didn’t have anyone to help him.  Consequently, I think he has – in some ways – adjusted to our life without kids less easily than I have.  I grieved, and I healed.  It was harder for him.

My final comment is that I have seen people get stuck grieving, women (usually) who aren’t able to move on, to heal, to look to the future.  They fight the prospect of letting go, of living life, and their grief seems inconsolable.  Their thoughts and emotions don’t change year in year out.  Outlets like infertility blogs or internet forums perhaps help them stay this way, almost wallowing in their grief.  So I will concede that very small point to the article.  But over a period of ten years, I have seen women like this so rarely that I think they're the exception.  I think they’d find an outlet somewhere anyway, and I strongly disagree that getting stuck emotionally is one result of too much openness about loss. 

In my opinion, being able to be open normalises our grief, prevents us from feeling ashamed and isolated, and helps us get back into the wider community more quickly.  Being open about my pregnancy losses helped me heal.  It helped me deal with other grief and loss in my life, and I know it will help me deal with grief in the future.  And for that, I’m thankful.