The importance of connection as we age

Loribeth highlighted this article about the importance of networks as we age. (She’s so good at telling us about articles that make me think). This is, of course, particularly important for those of us who do not have children (or for those whose children do not live nearby or are estranged or busy etc), to ensure that we have ongoing connections in our lives. But it is also something we are, as a community, quite good at, precisely because we haven’t had children we rely on to provide comfort and assistance.

It noted that the pandemic was particularly hard on elderly people, who lost that face-to-face, day-to-day contact with a range of people that aids our well-being, whether it be the cheerful person making our coffee, or the packer at the supermarket who is always helpful, or the people at the gym or exercise class who chat as we change. Poor health also affects people of all ages getting out and about making human connections. Lacking those day-to-day interactions can be awfully isolating. Especially if we already feel isolated because we don't have children. Just seeing change in our local environments can feel isolating. Our local Post Shop (post office and small store) is closing. I never knew the two who run it really, but they knew me, and I knew them, over 20-30 years. Likewise, we miss our favourite brunch place, and the two men who owned and managed it. We had our regular chats, exchange of travel information, and gripes about silly people. They were part of our network, and I miss them.

Online friendships were acknowledged in the article, and I’m really glad about that. We’ve come a long way in the last 15-20 years! I remember back then hearing a contemporary of mine scoffing at the idea that people look for support online. “That’s just sad, isn’t it?” she said disbelievingly. I was appalled at her naivety. I knew from personal experience that internet friendships can be real, close, supportive relationships that can provide more support and nurturing than our real life relationships. They are an important way we connect with others, and are vital for our well-being if we can’t get out and meet others who share our experiences. Yet we also all know that they can’t pop over to help out if you’re sick, or meet for a coffee or a drink, or give you a hug if you are sad. And we can't give love in that way either. We’ve all said it on each other’s blogs or in messageboards or whatsapp or fbk groups etc etc. “If only we could be there to give you a hug!” And every time I say it, I mean it.

The article then mentioned a woman who started a group of “elder orphans” – people who don’t have spouses or children to depend on. Though I have a spouse, neither of us have younger relatives we are close to in this city. (There’s one – a cousin’s niece, but we don’t really know her). And if one of us isn’t here, then whichever of us is left will definitely be an elder orphan. I love this idea of forming a group. Social media makes it so easy to do these days. We can connect with people in the same locations, as well as online. I’m definitely going to bear it in mind.

I know I’ve written a lot of this before, though in slightly different contexts. I think I write these posts as much as a reminder for me to get out and about, as I do for you. Because I suspect you are all already better at this than I am! Being self-employed since my 40s hasn’t really helped me forge new relationships. Although it has helped me nurture the ones that might have disappeared. And I have plans – I just haven’t joined that photography group yet, or another book club, or found somewhere to volunteer (because I can’t commit to doing something weekly if I’m going to be travelling two months in, etc). But they’re all on my list of things to do sometime this year, or next! Anyone have any hints on how you make and keep connections?

Being an aunt

 A week or so, Loribeth alerted her readers to an article written by Yael Wolfe, titled I'm Retiring from Aunthood. She is a No Kidding author talks about her love for her nieces and nephews, and all the help she gave her siblings with their children. "Nothing was more important to me than those kids," she writes. She notes, almost as an aside, that the help was often one-sided, and that she didn't get the same degree of support and assistance from her family (except occasionally from her brother) that her siblings with children received.

Then one sibling and family moved away, followed by the second. The loss of the relationships obviously hurt her,. and the reactions from the family seemed to dismiss her loss. She writes, "But I do wonder if anything I did for them meant anything." And later, "And I wonder if being an aunt really matters, at all."

She is writing the article on Mother's Day, feeling left out and unwanted, and sad that no-one cares about aunts. "I think we should care about aunts."  

 And she finishes by noting, "I wish I could say that many will be sad to see me retire and move on to new adventures. But I really doubt anyone will notice. ... At least I can know that I did more than my best while I was on the job. I always was an over-achiever. I guess I’m just not sure anymore what I was hoping to achieve…"

The article is devastating. I hear the yearning that she feels for these children she loves, and for the role she played in their lives ("Second Mommy" for one of the children). I feel her loneliness that she now only sees her nieces and nephews a few times a year, when she used to see them a few times a week. I feel that too, when we are so far away from all my nieces and nephews and great-nephews - the closest is a seven-hour drive, and the furthest is on the east coast of the US. The Husband actually said to me the other day, as we were admiring photos of little great-nephews growing up in Western Australia, that we are very isolated from our families. It can be lonely.

I feel too the lack of acknowledgement she gets from not just the kids, but from her siblings, who have benefited from her love for her nieces/nephews, but are it seems completely oblivious. They are the ones who are at fault. Are they so focused on their family that they don't consider their sister, and let her know how much she will be missed? 

Also, the focus only on the nuclear family, rather than all who contribute to the lives of the children, damages not only those who are excluded, but it is damaging for the children. They might grow to see people as replaceable or unimportant or learn to take them for granted. The sadness they might feel at losing their aunt (in terms of time and physical presence) might be dismissed by the parents, and not fully acknowledged, teaching a child that their feelings don't matter.

The author quotes her nephew who, when she shared how sad she is that they are leaving, "just shrugs and says, “We just need some new adventures.”"  She is tremendously hurt by this. Though, without knowing how old he was, I wonder if he was parroting his parents. Maybe he expressed sadness or hesitancy about moving, about leaving his school and friends and yes, about his aunt, and his parents said, "we need some new adventures" to explain the move. Perhaps he is very sad, but not really allowed to express that? We won't really know, but it is a reminder that when we are feeling very hurt, we focus on that, rather than on the other possibilities. I think it is a reminder too that as aunts, we are the adults, and we can't really put our feelings before the children. For that reason, I wouldn't want to retire from aunthood, however hurt I am, or however distant (in geographical terms) I might be. Stepping back a little is fine, but I know I've always wanted my nieces (in particular, a couple with whom I've had closer relationships) and nephews/great-nephews to know that I'm here for them if they need me.

Of course, I'm not saying that she can't grieve the loss of these families and the children in her day-to-day life. It is a real loss, and one that I suspect will not be acknowledged by anyone except her No Kidding friends. It's one we understand, and for many of us, feel deeply.

I do hope that the children will always feel a closeness with her, established as it was at such a young age, and I hope that the children I've been close to will always feel that too. Writing this reminded me to text my 14-year-old niece, asking if she had received my birthday present. I've been irritated, for about a month off and on, that neither my sister (her mother) or my niece had let me know, despite me telling them when to look out for the mailbox. We were taught when we were young to send thank you notes. Thank you texts are so much easier, you'd think, but it seems not. Still, I had a lovely exchange with her, she confirmed receipt of the gift and was very grateful, we chatted about books, and she's promised to tell me what a particular book was like when she's finished it. She'll probably forget! I am not just secondary in her life, but come well down the list, simply because I see her only a few times a year. But I hope that these little exchanges remind her that she is loved, just as my exchanges with my adult nieces in Australia remind them I'm part of their lives, and that I love them. They start to drift away in their teens, but I think when they're adults they might come back to us - even if they don't communicate as often as we would like! And as older teenagers and adults, we develop independent relationships with them, separate from our relationships with their parents. That can be a real bonus! I think too that as adults they start to appreciate who we are, and our places in their lives, that they didn't, or couldn't, when they were younger.

Aunthood is complicated, and even more so when we don't have our own children. As children I've know have drifted away, or moved physically, I've decided to cherish the experiences I had with them, to value that time, and to understand that it had real value to them and/or their parents too. It taught them so much - that lives are different, that people other than your parents can love you, nurture you, teach you, laugh with you. If it hasn't continued, or if it changes, it doesn't negate the special parts we played in each others' lives. I think that's really important. To recognise that it was good, and to appreciate that.

Pros and cons of a childless Easter

First, the pros:

I got to sleep in. 

I didn't have to amuse children, go out in crowds, dread the coming school holidays (which started here on Friday).

I didn't have to buy a lot of chocolate, especially not the cheaper Cadbury's chocolate that flooded our supermarkets but isn't certified from non-child-labour sources.

We bought bakery hot cross buns (my baking attempt failed - I'm blaming the recipe) which probably wouldn't be to the taste of children.

We had an lovely meal on Easter Sunday at our leisure, and a bottle of excellent wine.

We watched adult (not adult-themed!) TV.

It was exceptionally peaceful, especially today, after a disrupted night, a morning when I felt unwell, so I could spend a day on the couch reading.

The weather was gorgeous, and we could do what we want.

But there are cons:

It's often a family time, with people travelling to see their families, or getting together locally. But it's too far to go to see my family in the South island, and my sister in the north visited last year and was spending it with friends and their families this year. So it can be lonely when you're the only ones you know without immediate family nearby.

It's easier to hide the loneliness by staying at home than by going out, so we hibernated, despite the gorgeous weather.

I made my own Easter Eggs (having first made them over the first pandemic lockdown two years ago), and have now mastered the recipe. But there was no-one to share them with. (Okay, to be honest, I could have and would have shared them with the neighbour and his little girl, but there weren't enough to go round!)

But that's life. I'm sure there are people with families who would have liked to have our peaceful, low-calorie weekend! So I'm sticking with the pros.

When we're the only ones to remember

Oops. I forgot Microblog Mondays. It was a public holiday yesterday, and we'd delayed some Sunday things till yesterday, so the whole day had a very Sunday vibe. That's my excuse, and I'm going to repeat this on A Separate Life today too! Fortunately, it is still Monday in Mel-of-Microblog-Monday-land, and so I can post on Tuesdays here and get away with it.

We celebrated a wedding anniversary (not a big one) on Friday. My mother and D's mother used to remember, but they're both gone now, so it was only the two of us who remembered. If I had kids, they might have remembered. I always remembered my parents anniversary, and in later years we remembered my in-laws' anniversary too - they all made it to 50 years! My bridesmaid (younger sister) and the best man never remember. Sigh. Don't they have Google Calendar? lol Anyway, as it has been our entire married life, we celebrated together, and we went out for a lovely meal at a favourite, fancy restaurant. But when I thought about it, it felt just a little lonely, you know? And I wasn't in the mood to seek attention by posting on social media. (And this post isn't intended to do that either.) Yes, I love that we celebrate our love and our life together. But sometimes, I think it would be nice if someone else noticed. Not having kids makes it just that little bit lonelier.

However, I know how lucky I am to have D in my life. And to have a partner who likes going out and dressing up a bit (okay, he doesn't really like that but he does it!) and ordering champagne at the very cool bar at the restaurant. I'm not complaining about that!

Find your No Kidding tribe

I'm really happy today to do some promotion on behalf of the wonderful Jody Day, of Gateway Women. She is coming to New Zealand, and even though she is coming for a holiday, she couldn't come all this way and NOT lead a workshop! She still has places left on her Auckland Reignite Weekend on 18/19 November; you can find more details and sign up here.

I can't imagine a better way to spend a weekend than linking with other women who share our journey, and who are also struggling to come to terms with their life without children.

But if you can't do that for whatever reason, you don't need to be or feel alone. I have, as you probably know, done a huge part of my healing after infertility and loss, and my subsequent experience of acceptance, online - here on this blog, and elsewhere - with some amazing women who are now lifelong friends.

Even now, almost 15 years later, I am still astounded every day by how reassuring, empowering and encouraging it can be when you find people who understand, especially women who won't judge, or criticise, or condescend.

Whether those people are in the the same street or suburb, or across the world, I know I am not alone, and I hope you know that too.

My 2016 annual holiday post

Every year, I like to post about the holiday season that is practically on top of us already. I'm not sure I have anything new to say this year, so I thought I'd link to some of my previous posts.

Six years ago, I wrote my first post about Christmas (or another holiday) without children, and talked about my practice of reclaiming Christmas. I wrote,

But understanding the grief that we won't ever celebrate Christmas with our own children doesn't mean that Christmas has to be lost to us.  If it was important to you before children, it can be important to you afterwards.  It might not be what you always wanted, but let's face it, what in life is exactly as we had envisaged it, or just how we always wanted?  And so I stamp my feet a little, and say "Christmas is NOT just for children.  It's for all of us, to make our own."

I still feel that way, but would simply perhaps add, "if we wish." Because there's nothing wrong with not wanting to celebrate anything at this time of year, or choosing to celebrate life with friends or partners or even simply with yourself.

In 2011, I was staying at my mother's house in the south, and we were spending a quiet Christmas morning, and I was at peace, and hoping all you were at peace too.

In 2012, I remembered Decembers in the past that had been exceedingly painful, and delighted that the pohutukawa trees that previously always brought back memories of that time now brought me joy in their blooms.

In 2013, I wrote three posts inspired by the season. In the first, I caught myself when I felt a little jealous of a friend, and reminded myself that someone else's happiness does not affect my own. In the second, I talked about including childless relatives. And in the third, I reminded myself and us all that we are not alone.

In 2014, I wrote about my ideal holiday if money were no object, and what we actually to do in the real world.


Last year, I was relaxed on Christmas Eve, feeling a little melancholy, but about other things rather than about being childless and alone on Christmas.

This year I feel much the same - a bit (though not badly) melancholy. It's the first Christmas without my mother, and I feel sad about her last few years. Neither my husband nor I have any confirmed work for next year, so I feel uncertainty and a small degree of fear. I can't look back on 2016 with any satisfaction, other than simply (so far) surviving it. I feel a bit lonely too, as none of the overseas relatives are returning home this Christmas, the sons having rushed home when FIL had two heart attacks in April. Of course, I have just been at a celebration in the south with my family, so I can't complain about not seeing my sisters or nieces or great-nephew. Still, friends also tend to leave town at Christmas, going places with family or staying in the country or at the beach - anywhere where the weather is better - and so here there'll be just be us and some elderly relatives. And have I mentioned that this year I don't even get to control the Christmas menu? I have hardly even had any Christmas shopping to do, and although I sometimes find it stressful, I also find it very satisfying, and enjoy being able to buy gifts for people in my life.

However, it's not all doom and gloom. I'm going to do some Christmas baking soon, and will give that as gifts. My Christmas tree is up, and looks great. I'll arrange to catch up with the friend who is going to be remaining in town, and perhaps we'll do some overnight visits to other friends. I think I'll do a meal of our favourite things, just for my husband and I, on Christmas Eve, to make up for not choosing the menu on Christmas Day. And I have had a wonderful offer of accommodation somewhere exotic for Christmas 2017, so I can start thinking about if we can afford that, or at least do it cheaply. Enjoying and making the most of what I have - this is what I mean about reclaiming Christmas.

Besides, by this time next week it will be a distant memory, and I can focus on going on summer walks and picnics and playing with my camera outside, and having some friends over for barbecues, and fixing our house, and enjoying the summer, and maybe planning a road trip to visit my sister up north, and planning an international trip in May, and maybe getting a project finished that has been on hold all year, and maybe kicking off a small business that I don't expect will ever make much money, as long as it will make enough to make a few things tax deductible, and thinking about the New Year always makes me feel a little enthusiastic about the unknown opportunities that might come to us, allowing me to wipe the slate clean.

It seems that I did have some things to say after all.

Gifts of Infertility: A series - #1 - We are not alone

I have been blogging here for almost four years. Not so long really, but I have actually been writing about infertility and pregnancy loss for a lot longer. In fact, I started posting about pregnancy loss, and the related infertility fears, back in 2002 - twelve years ago, several years after my journey in infertility began. In October 2003, I was forced to switch and start talking about living the rest of my life without children.

So for ten years, I’ve been thinking about living a No Kidding life. That’s enough time to have figured out some things. I certainly don’t have it right yet. I'm not 100% at peace, and I probably never will be. But let’s be honest, who is 100% at peace? Not most of my friends. And I'm pretty close.

The truth is I'm okay with where I am (employment issues excepted) in life. I refer to the benefits and gifts of infertility periodically. I've was going to list them all in one post. But why write one post when I can write ten. So this post is the start of a series - the 15 Gifts of Infertility. (Update: The series will go to 25!)

And the first is that, as a result of infertility, I know I'm not alone.  I've felt alone in the past, wondered if people understand me, if I am the only one who feels the way I feel. Then I experienced loss through ectopic pregnancy, grief, and infertility that brought more loss and grief. Initially I felt very alone when I went through all this. I wrote about it here. 

But now I know. However alone I might feel when surrounded by parents, kids, grandparents and grand-kids, I know I'm not alone. Infertility and loss made me feel terribly alone initially, but ultimately, the connections I have made with other women have reminded me that we are never alone. There are always others in the world who know how we feel, who understand what we go through, and who share our fears, our thoughts, our rages, and our joys.

And this knowledge applies to our infertility, but to other aspects of our lives too. If we’re not alone due to our childlessness, then it must follow that we’re not alone in other areas of our lives either. We just have to look for our people.

We are not alone. We are never alone. That is not a little thing.

Do as I say, not as I do

As a consultant, I've designed and taught several courses about marketing, in particular, about marketing your services.  After all, there's not much more personal in sales than selling yourself, your thoughts and abilities and personality and style.  It's not easy.  You may be a brilliant consultant because you understand your clients, they trust you, you develop insight, and you tailor your approach to each individual client and their specific needs.  You may be a brilliant consultant because you are an expert at what you do - leading your city, country, or even the world.  But unless you're able to

a) explain your value in terms your client understands and values, or
b) actually put yourself out there in front of potential clients, put yourself out to be seen (and yes, judged),

then you won't get the work.

I'm terrible at the above.  Well, no, let me qualify that.  I am skilled at knowing how to do it, but point b) gets me every time.  Call it fear, call it a lack of self-belief, call me shy, or call me a coward.  I wish I was better at self-promotion, at acknowledging what I'm good at (and I'm very good at that), and at convincing others.  Heck, forget about convincing, saying it (or believing it) in the first place would be a good idea.

I think this blog is the same. I know what I need to do, and how to do it, to live a good life, to embrace my future.  And I think I'm more succesful with this than I am at my own self-promotion.  But just because I think I have some of the answers, or sound as if I might know what I'm talking about, doesn't mean it is always easy.  It doesn't mean I always manage to embrace my life, to shrug off negative comments as if I'm coated in teflon, or to always be happy.  I can't.  And that's okay.  And I think I need to acknowledge it here, that I have moments or even days of sadness, that I often take a step back before I can step forward again, that I don't always follow my own advice.

Coming to terms with our life-style will be a life-long issue.  But our lifestyles - whatever they might be - are a life-long issue - whether it's coming to terms with not having children, or a partner, or the career we wanted (or not being able to figure out what career we wanted), or not having the health, the friendships, the body, the partner, or the money etc we wanted.  All these things are our issues.  And too often we focus on what we don't have, rather than what we do have.  That's natural and normal.  But sometimes, if we focus to an excess on what we don't have, it is neither natural or normal.  But unfortunately, too often, it is encouraged by the societies in which we live.

And in this focus on what we don't have, we open the door to feelings of disconnection* and we invite in shame.  I think that that stops us reflecting on what we do have.  And so often, and certainly in my life, a lot of what we do have, the good things in my life, are a direct result of not having something we wanted.  And you know, that's not a bad thing.

Yes, I'm referencing Brene Brown and her thoughts on shame again.

The isolation of ...

The other day I was in one of my favourite cafes, and discovered the ear-splitting screamer was back.  On his second painful (quite literally, it hurt my ears) squeal, when I physically jumped in pain (and he was a good three or so metres away) I saw his mother had noticed my cringe.  Since the first screech, I had been keeping a surreptitious eye on the mother and her friend.  I noticed that the mother spent a lot of time chastising the child, pulling him onto her lap to tell him to stop screaming (you can just hear the child thinking “yes, it worked!”), and chasing after him.  Her friend sat alone at the table, with her little boy of the same age chomping happily and quietly through a muffin.  I’ve been that friend – not with a hungry little boy of course – but I’ve been that friend who sits trying not to look fed up, unable to have any adult conversation with the mother, wondering why I bothered.  We all have.

As infertile women, we find this kind of situation intensely isolating.  We’re reminded of what we don’t have, and we find it painful and isolating to spend the entire meeting talking about the child.  Or we see a group of women with their kids out at a playground or a cafe (preferably one with a kids’ playground, or at least with toys and books) , and we feel completely left out of the club.

But recently, I realised that I’m not sure how deeply I have ever considered how it might feel to be one of the mothers in the club.  Kait on Pictures & Print wrote an honest and thoughtful post about the isolating nature of parenthood.  I found it fascinating to see this from the other side.  That parents are just as frustrated with the lack of adult company, the fact that real connections – when there is a toddler in tow – are difficult to make, that their precious time with a friend seems to be squandered.  We sit there judging ourselves harshly, feeling isolated, feeling less than.  But so do the parents – or some of them at least - it seems.  And so I’m going to try to be more understanding in the future.  (Not that I’m likely to be around too many toddlers – well, not until the next generation starts reproducing.)

Why me?

This is a commonly asked question by infertility patients.  We feel separate and alone.  “Other” as Mel wrote abouttoday.  When it happened to me, I couldn’t believe I was in this position.  And like so many women before me, and after me too, I asked “Why me?”  But then I heard a cancer patient say, about her own situation, “why not me?”  And those three words stopped me in my tracks.  Why not me indeed?  I had no answer. And therefore no option but to accept.

This last week I’ve been suffering from a second attack of trigeminal neuralgia.  I wrote about my first attack – vaguely, as I have struggled to “come out” about it – on A Separate Life here.  Interesting that I feel more comfortable talking about it here, where many of us have had unfortunately medical diagnoses..  I had been hopeful that my attack two years ago was a one-off.  My neurologist said that was possible.  But no, it apparently isn’t.  The pain is overwhelming, the drugs that deal with the pain take a while to kick in, make me feel dreadful, and now I’m suffering from chills.  Ironically, we had one of the best, warmest, finest weekends of our pathetic summer the last two days.  And there I was, huddled under two blankets shivering on the couch.  Ridiculous!

And so I’m feeling a bit “other” and have a bit of a “why me?” attack.  After all, is it fair to have had three rare conditions in my adult life?  First, dengue fever.  Then infertility – and a cornual ectopic pregnancy that is very rare – and now, as I was trying to get my life in order, trigeminal neuralgia, otherwise nicely known as the Suicide Disease.  I’ve looked on-line for support groups, but they’re just terrifying.  I'm not ready for them.

And I thought about Mel’s “otherness” post.  Reading it, it felt self-indulgent, a bit “woe is me we’re infertile.”  When it could be so much worse.  I thought of Guiliana Rancic and a friend of mine – infertility and cancer.  I thought of another dear friend of mine – infertility and fibromyalgia and lives with pain constantly.  I thought of a child who is very dear to me with cystic fibrosis (and her parents dealing with it).  I thought of a friend coping with her fathers’ Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s.  And I thought of all those people dealing with conditions or life problems that make them “other.”  And I thought, we’re really not that different, none of us.  Then I got to Mel's last paragraph.  I should have trusted her (but it’s 3 am and I’m full of drugs and my brain isn’t working very well and I’m exhausted).  She wrote, “They had no idea how deeply I felt my otherness, just as I had no idea looking at them how deeply they felt their own othernesses.”  It expressed my feelings exactly after a horrible week.  And it struck me that the one thing that binds so many of us in this world is our “otherness.”  I wish we could recognise that, and appreciate that, rather than just look for the similarities. 

PS.  I am aware that a 3 am blog post may not be the wisest thing, so come tomorrow in the light of day, and hopefully after some more, peaceful, sleep I may decide to delete.

Studying happiness

Studies regularly come out that show that childless people are (in general) happier than those with children.  And a while ago a reader of mine commented about another such study getting publicity (in the comments on my Selfish post here).  She said:

“... it just made me roll my eyes at yet again another study designed to make one group feel better about choices or circumstances ... drawing a circle around one group and saying "Everyone here is this/everyone here is MORE this than everyone on the outside of the circle" is ridiculous.”

I agree with her – after all, she’s asking everyone to simply “let them be.” She’s saying not everyone who is childfree is happier than those with children, and equally it is not true the other way round either.  You can't argue with that.

But I don’t agree necessarily that this study was designed to make one group feel better about choices or circumstances over another.  After all, there is a lot of research about happiness, trying to figure out what the secrets are, what is different about happy or “cup half full” people.  And I think that this is good.  I worry that (like my mother) I have a tendency to worry.  (Hint:  Worrying about worrying is a bad sign.)  I worry that (like his father) my husband might turn into an old man with a depressive, negative outlook.  And so I like reading about happiness.  I like learning that being busy, and helping others, is in fact going to contribute to making my life happier.  I like being able to point out to my mother that by going to visit and help her annoying neighbour, she’s helping herself too.  I like knowing that when I’m old and have a cat, the cat will help soothe me and make me happy. Studying happiness – whilst it might seem a little pointless – can actually be useful, I think.

The thing is though, that not all the world is fair and balanced (unlike my friend I referred to above).   I find myself on the side of the fence where society, the media, and other men and women seem to do their darndest to convince me that I will never be happy without children.  (Sure, they're less obvious about it now.  But the pity says it all).  It's pervasive.  This family-centric focus of society is ingrained in advertising, in media reporting, TV, movies, books, and don’t get me started on political campaigning.  Even Cathy, the cartoon on the young modern woman, finished with her announcement that she was pregnant.  The assumption being of course that this was the ultimate happy ending.  That she wouldn’t live happily ever after if she didn’t have children. 

If you do have children, perhaps you don’t notice this; I don’t know.  I do know, though, that over the last ten years I have watched hundreds of women grieve their pregnancy losses, the loss of their tubes and sometimes the loss of their fertility, petrified that they will never ever be happy because they won’t end up with that holy grail of society, a baby.  For a time I was one of them.  I remember (though I also blame rampant hormones) being less concerned that I might have cancer, than the fact that if I did I would not be able to try to conceive for at least a year.  I was 40 at the time, and knew that this would likely mean I would never have children.  I was furious at the nurse who said to me “you’ve got to think of yourself now.”  She didn’t realise that I was thinking of myself, and that  I was afraid that – if I lived – I would have a life I wasn’t sure (at the time) was worth living.  My hormones were ruling my emotions, but my brain had also bought into everything I was exposed to, telling me that children are the ultimate prize, the necessary ingredient to achieve any happiness in life. 

Childfree couples who are perfectly content with their decisions not to have children find this constant barrage of opinion to be frustrating and insulting, as if they don’t know their own minds, as if they aren’t capable of making a responsible decision.  Childless not-by-choice couples (though my experience is largely of childless women, more specifically) often find this focus on family to be extremely distressing.  It reminds them of what they wanted, but could not have.  It makes them feel isolated, abnormal. And they worry that they will never achieve happiness again.  They face the future with real trepidation, imagining years of emptiness and sadness and loss stretching out before them.  Some  consider suicide, and they cry out for help.  They feel like failures, although their strength in living in a society that constantly tells them they are abnormal and unsuccessful shows that in fact they are far from failures.  They are my heroes.

Like my friend, I wish that there wasn’t such an emphasis on promoting one lifestyle decision or circumstance as being in any way superior to another.  It isn't fair to anyone - it places unfair expectations on people on both sides of the fence, it makes people feel there's no hope, or that they are failures, or it makes the smug even smugger.   But we can't change our imperfect society.  Not now anyway.  So here I am.  A childless woman living in this society where “having a family” is supposed to be the only way to achieve fulfilment and happiness and full humanity (and womanhood).  And so I have to say that finding a study that contradicts the common stereotype, and that tells me - or perhaps more importantly, tells other women going through loss and fear right now - that our lives won’t be lonely and sad, but can be happy and full, is very welcome.

When I'm old

In a few days, provided that the predicted snow-storm doesn’t close the airports, I will be visiting my mother.  She is almost 78, and has not had an easy life.  She is aging.  I have to repeat things.  Frequently.  Always a worrier, she worries more now, because she forgets to tell herself to stop worrying.  Did I mention I have to repeat things?  She is coping wonderfully since my Dad died six years ago, but does find it lonely at times, as self-sufficient as she is.  Whilst my sister lives nearby, I worry about my mother on her own. 

And this is when my emotions become confused.  I am glad that my sisters and I am around to care for my mother, whatever she might need.  But as I do more and more for her, and as she needs me to do more and more for her, selfishly my mind turns to my own old age.  Who will look after me?

This is an issue that is of real (public or secret) concern to those of us without children.  We worry about our old age.  Whenever there is a public debate about having or not having children, we hear the argument that you should have children at least to have someone “who will look after you in your old age.”  It is a point that always hurts.  No-one wants to be old, sad, vulnerable and alone.

Of course, in reality I know that having children is no guarantee that you will have anyone to look after you in your old age.  You probably know by now that my husband’s three brothers all live overseas, and if he left, then my in-laws would be alone.  Another reminder of this is my great-aunt and uncle.  They had three sons, all intelligent and successful.  And inevitably, they lived far far away, holidaying on yachts, hobnobbing with media barons, setting up their investment banks.  But Uncle Ray and Auntie Winnie rarely saw them.  And as they aged, my parents stepped in.  Even though they lived a three hour drive away, my parents helped out.  I still remember seeing my father help Uncle Ray out of his chair one day when I was also visiting.  I was struck by the comparison – my dad was in his 60s, and was vibrant and healthy and strong, and Uncle Ray was in his late 80s and frail.  And I was struck by my father’s compassion, his willingness to be there for his wife’s uncle.  I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of my father than that day. 

So I’ve always been a little sceptical of the argument that you have to have children to ensure you aren’t lonely or alone (the two are different) in your old age.  I’ve talked about this on a previous blog and my lovely blogger friends have decided we’ll all live on a commune together, pool our resources, and have a wild old age.  I rather like that idea.

I was even more comforted to find this article some time ago.  A study showed clearly that childlessness doesn’t mean you will be lonely and unhappy in old age.  In fact, it showed that the childless are more likely to have built support networks, wider friendships and family relationships around them than those who relied on their children to provide this.  That cheered me, and reminded me to continue doing this into my old age. The commune is really starting to sound like a good idea now, don’t you think? 

However – yes, there is a “but” to this topic - the study’s author reported that 

“Childless women who believed it was better to have a child were much more likely to report being lonely and depressed than their female counterparts who said it didn’t make a difference.”  

And so I realise that so much of our loneliness – or rather, so much of our happiness - is dependent on our attitudes.  My mother doesn’t expect (or want) her daughters to be there every day, or to telephone every day.  And so she doesn’t sit there pining for us, she goes out and gets on with enjoying her life.  In the last 7-8 years, I have really come to terms with the benefits of not having children, and I am enjoying my life.  I am determined to do this, precisely because I don’t want to be a woman sitting pining about “what might have been.”  Making the best of my situation now, relishing it and enjoying it, can only establish a good foundation for a happy, busy, and content old age.  I owe it to myself.

That said, I'm still going to work on my nieces as a back-up!