Grief and its toll

I've always said writing helps. And it really does. But in the absolute depths of grief, writing has been, and still is, too hard. I could pour my heart out here. But I've never really done that in this space, not in the midst of the experiences, not as I am trying to roll with the feelings, and just get through each day. Yet my brain keeps trying to make sense of it. So today I've been trying to write things down - yes, actual handwriting! What a novelty. But at times, it just feels that that is what my brain needs. 

It's now been almost seven weeks. The passage of time feels unbearably cruel. Yet I feel as if he is still with me.  Because he is with me and he always will be; we have over 40 years of memories together. They will never go. And so it's not a case of having to reprogram my brain, which I talked about after the final diagnosis that I would never have children. I'd been so used to thinking "when I have children" that I needed a complete brain reset. And that was hard, every realisation a sharp shock. Especially when the prevailing attitude from everyone around me was always that I had to keep hope. "Think positive" - ugh! But this is different. I've had over a year knowing that he was going to die, though we didn't think it would be quite so soon. But that doesn't make it any easier.

I'd forgotten how exhausting grief can be. I'd forgotten too how exhausting it is trying to "stay strong." Just as any of us who have been to child-centred activities would get home feeling depleted, anything I do now that is a reminder of D (which is pretty much everything) takes a toll. Staying strong - ie not weeping and wailing - with friends (even when the tears do come) or with tradesmen or lawyers or at the damn supermarket takes a toll. Even writing through the grief takes a toll. Which is why I'll stop here today. Thanks for reading. And if you are suffering loss in any way, recognise that it takes a toll, and be kind to yourself.

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. 

 

Loving the life we have

Elaine wrote a wonderful post - "You can't have everything." Go read it. It's perfect. 

I've mentioned before that my husband was essentially given a terminal diagnosis just over a year ago. At the time, well-meaning friends and family said, "you must be so pleased you had your big trip last year," referring to our three-month trip* to Ireland, UK, and Portugal. At the time, that was TOO SOON! His life wasn't over. But they were acting as if it was. And as symptoms had appeared on our trip, maybe we could have got treatment sooner if we hadn't gone. I felt and feel real guilt about that. The trip's wonderful memories were not a silver lining to learning how sick he was, and that treatment would never be "curative." The trip was a reminder that it may have made his condition worse. And of course, I was grieving then. I still am. 

The "aren't you glad" comments felt similar to the "at least" comments about early pregnancy losses ("at least you weren't further along") or "at least you have each other" or "at least you can travel" when we knew we'd never have children, or "at least you could afford IVF." Comments like "at least" need to be timed better. When loss is new, or imminent, it is not a comfort. It is a little dismissive. It's not going to make us feel better. Even if it makes the speaker feel a little better. And I know the sentiment behind it is well intended. But it definitely made me flinch. Ouch.

We were told during treatment that he would have a "healthy period" and we should make the most of it, and decide what we wanted to do. We went on another trip** -  this time to his bucket list destination of Egypt, and then a cruise through the Straits of Hormuz to Singapore. Of course, everyone now is saying what perfect timing our trip was. They are right. We were lucky, in a year when very little has felt lucky. But there was grief and there were good-byes as well as joy. 

We're now at the stage where we have accepted the ending is coming. We've been talking about our lives, and in particular, our travels. Travelling together was our great love, our great interest, and yes, our great expense! In the years after learning we would never have children, we intensified our travels. From 2002, between ectopic pregnancies, through to 2013, we travelled internationally every year, sometimes twice. That's nothing if you are in the UK or Europe, or even the US, but quite an achievement if you live in NZ, where a seven-hour flight is almost considered "short haul." We had some wonderful wonderful trips. Some were adventures, some big long road trips, some were "blobs on the beach" as we called our tropical beach holidays, depending on our energy levels. After 2013, our travelling slowed for a few years, with health issues and elder care issues, though we still managed to fit in several new countries in 2017 and 2019, COVID caused a glitch for a couple of years, but even then we managed to have a great tour of NZ when overseas travel was out of the question. 

We took these trips because we didn't have children, and the trips from 2004 through to 2013 were deliberate responses to our No Kidding status becoming permanent. They were not just consolation trips. They were trips we had chosen to sacrifice when we decided to try for children. Because of course, if we'd had children, we knew we wouldn't be able to "have it all" either, as Elaine said. Every choice includes a sacrifice too. And knowing we couldn't have children, we decided to make the most of it. 

So now I can admit that yes, I'm glad we had our three-month trip in 2024. I couldn't say that this time last year. But I don't flinch thinking about it now. Well, not all the time. Not badly. Yes, I'm glad we went to Egypt last year too. And yes, we are both very glad that we were able to enjoy those trips together, that we have all those memories of discovering over 65 countries (mostly) together. "At least" we travelled earlier, before retirement. 

And now our world is more limited. So I take advice from Elaine's post, and embrace the little things, that together make something big. We are doing that now. Today's was a coffee and a sausage roll together from a local shop. 

We couldn't have it all. We knew that. We couldn't have children. And we're not going to have an old age together. I am very much feeling that now. I especially feel it as I watch another family going through a similar process, but with the support of two adult children. But that was our life. We couldn't have it all. But we have had a lot. After not having children, we made the choice to accept it, and live. And our life together is not over yet. 

 

 

 * I write about it here - My 2024 Travels - though I've only got through Ireland for perhaps obvious reasons.

** I've documented some of the trip on A Separate Life where you can search "What I did on my holidays" or just click here.  

Thinking about support

I've been thinking about how we support each other recently. Not only because I have been in need of support this year, but also because a close friend is now in need of support too, and I want to continue to be there for her, when I am able. I learned a lot back when I was going through my ectopics and hospital stays, etc. I learned what worked for me, and that is always helpful. And I learned how to support others as a result. But I'm definitely still learning, and have been far from ideal over the years, I am sure.

Here are some thoughts on support, and how to be supported: 

• Reaching out really helps. Knowing someone is thinking about us helps. It doesn't matter that there's nothing you can do. It just helps. 

• Or if you haven't heard from them in a while, reaching out lets them know they're not forgotten or alone.

• Not reaching out - even if it is because you don't want to bother the person who needs support, or don't know what to say - can make them feel that you don't care. 

• Listening helps - not just to our woes, but to what we say helps. A friend overseas commented that she was twittering on about her travels, when we were going through some awful stuff. I said it helps. And now I love getting her messages with photos of her adventures. Better than flowers! I might not be able to be out and about travelling now, but that doesn't mean I want everyone else to stop. 

• Don't put the onus of information updates on the person or people at the centre who need support. Ask! They can say "I can't talk about it right now" if they need some space. 

• Be honest. My friend and I have talked about how we can continue to support each other, unless circumstances mean we can't. We know we can easily say to the other that we are overwhelmed or busy, and know the other one will understand. So let people know what you can, or perhaps why you can't, do for them. 

• Be aware of the person's preferred method of communication, and use that, even if it isn't yours. This is a big one for me. It's not about you! I'm fine on the phone with people I'm close to, but sometimes I just can't talk about it. So I rarely enjoy phone calls out of the blue. One person in my life has been told at certain times of my life not to call me. She always respects this. In fact, recently I had to say, "I'm okay for a call!" A text saying, "can you talk if I ring you right now?" is great to receive, even if our response might be, "not right now, maybe tomorrow." I'm good with texts/emails/written communication (no kidding! lol), but I know others prefer talking directly. So when they are at the centre of something, I call them. (I know that, because I was once berated for messaging not calling!)

• Pace yourself! Don't overwhelm the person at the centre, and don't rush in with support that you're going to be tired of providing in a few months. Especially if they're going to need more support down the line. Pace yourself, so you can be there for them later.

• Read between the lines. If someone is giving limited information, don't pry. I have a friend who always, always asks follow-up questions. Yes, that's nice. But sometimes it's a bit much. It's why I didn't tell people I was going through IVF. Oh, the thought of all those questions! Yet I could be quite detailed about my ectopics, because it had already happened.

• Hope and optimism is good, but let people sit with sadness and dread too. Don't dismiss their feelings by telling them to cheer up, especially if they are still dealing with a new reality. Those of us who have gone through infertility or pregnancy loss certainly know that, don't we? We need time. 

• Think before you speak. Yes, I've blurted out one or two things I haven't meant to in the past, and one statement in particular still haunts me. I'll never do it again.  

• But also, be normal! Normality is so great. A good conversation, lots of laughs, a meal together, etc. It reminds everyone of what brings us together, or why we might be friends or beloved family members.  

• Don't make it about you. I'm thinking of parents (not mine) who grieve the lack of grandchildren, and put it on the childless people who are grieving their own loss. Or people who want to see someone who might not have much time left, and don't think about what they might want, or when they might want it. 

• Don't expect the person in need to make all the adjustments to the relationship, or to remember to contact you, or keep you up to date with ongoing events, because you don't want to be a nuisance. I remember, in the midst of several procedures I needed to resolve my second ectopic, that I had assumed a particular person was being kept informed by others. And they were, pretty much. When we eventually spoke, they indignantly said to me, that even though I hadn't kept them informed of everything that was going on, they did still care." The blame was put on me. But I'd not had a single message from them when they knew I'd lost the pregnancy, and three months later, still going through procedures, I'd never heard from them. Not a text, not a card, not a voicemail message. As you can see, 20-something years later, it still irritates me. (I need to forgive them. Except exactly the same thing has happened before, and is happening now.)

• Be kind. The kinder the better. Then they can be kind to you too, when you need it. 

 And as a person receiving support:

• Be grateful.

• Don't feel guilty for getting support. People like to feel they're helping. Let them. 

• Further, remember to ask for help. It's one of the hardest things to do, but once you've done it, it can feel so easy! I did this in the middle of my ectopic. I dreaded the response. It was wonderful. What was I so worried about? Almost everyone likes to feel they can help another person. So let them! 

• Accept that people might not be in touch, because that's how they handle these things. Their reaction is not about me, even if the situation is all about me! If that makes sense. They're not doing it to hurt me. (I don't think). 

• Forgive. Forgive the difficult comments, and actions. Life is too short to hang on to them. (Yes, I'm consciously working on that. I'm half way there!) 

• If you can't forgive, maybe explain. I did this with infertility - explaining what has been lost, or why I don't "want your children," It's the same now - explaining why a comment isn't helpful can actually help both of you. 

•  There is dignity, I think, in accepting support gracefully. It's not a failure, not weakness, just evidence that life hands us all difficult times. We can fight it, but that does us little good, or deal with it. 

 

Loss and the community

The lowest time of my life was when I was going through pregnancy losses and infertility. The loss of my parents was less traumatic, both because it was signalled in advance, and because my life really was separate from theirs on a day-to-day basis. But the pregnancy losses, infertility, and discovery that I would never have children changed my life - or rather my vision of it at the time - in a fundamental way. There was a lot I had to come to terms with. Failure to get the outcome I had tried to achieve. Isolation and "otherness" from society. Recognition of my own mortality. Acceptance of my body's limitations. Judgement, pity, and condescension from others. The list is longer than this. I also remember a time when I really didn't want to go on. Though I'm glad I did.

I've been thinking a lot about that in recent weeks. How I don't want to feel those depths of despair again, but how I know I will. How I got through them and came out the other side. How I had my husband with me during that entire time. How physical touch said volumes when words couldn't. How isolated I felt from most of my friends who were actively parenting at the time. How finding my tribe online really helped. How my family wanted to understand but didn't. How people were afraid to talk about it with me.

It's weird how that going through a health issue is both similar and yet very different. Similarities include  finding that "worst case scenarios" can and do suddenly get worse and worse, and each time we adapt. Loving each other becomes so much more important. Taking enjoyment in the little things helps us cope. A focus on what's important - food, sleep, connection - also helps. Oh, and the platitudes too are the same. "It will happen" turns into "get well soon" or they'll "pull through, I know."  I'm remembering too that emotional turmoil is exhausting. 

But there are differences too. And whilst I'll talk about this more in the future. There's one difference that has been startling. Friends and family are concerned, offer help, send or bring food. I've told them to pace themselves - at the moment we don't need too much. There is community support, both in health terms and in support networks. So far, no-one has really distanced themselves from us - digitally or physically. Certainly not unexpectedly. But having a particular illness that is known and understood in the community, even if it is rare and aggressive, brings connections and support that pregnancy loss and infertility did not. There isn't the shame or judgement or just silence that I experienced around infertility and pregnancy loss. 

Isn't that sad? Even though I welcome that unfamiliar level of support today, I feel sad that people going through infertility right now still feel that isolation. And just want them to know that we have been there, and understand, and send love.

 

 

 

Disrupted plans

I started blogging here when I was at least seven years past learning I would never ever have children. I'd done a lot of grieving, expressed some of my feelings online with friends in a restricted space. I've never done the full emotional download onto my blog that some others have done. And now I know my blog is connected to my own, real name - as connected as I feel to Mali, who has been my online persona since 2006.

I remember some years ago seeing someone say (online, not one of my beloved bloggers) that their plan for their childless old age was to stay healthy. At the time I remember thinking (and writing here) that that wasn't a plan, it was just putting their head in the sand. My parents lived fit and healthy lives, but the ends of their lives were difficult. Genes and cancer had other ideas. Looking at them, I knew I needed to plan. I know now how right I was.

I just thought I'd have a few more years before they were necessary. My husband and I are going through some pretty serious health stuff right now. It's caused me to realise that even my relatively cautious plans have now been blown out of the water. I'm going to take a step back from No Kidding in NZ. I'll still blog, but just not every week. Because there's a lot going on in my head at the moment, and I don't want to write it all down for public consumption. And it's hard thinking of topics to write about when my every thought is about another issue. 

But living in the moment helps. Finding joy in a lovely day, good food, a joke. I wrote about it in my 2020 Healing series, and Gifts of Infertility under Mindfulness. It helps each day pass. I don't apologise for the repetition.

 

Bamberlamb: A Tribute

As many of you already know, our fellow No Kidding blogger, Bamberlamb of Its Inconceivable, passed away last week. Her last post was a year ago, telling us of her secondary cancer. I know she touched many lives, including my own, and I send love to all those who have been affected by her death.

I first knew her as Lambsie, on the Ectopic Pregnancy Trust's messageboards over 20 years ago. In the years I was going through two ectopics, she was experiencing her second and third. She was such a voice of fun, but also, and always, of compassion. Understandably, it hurt her when others did not show the same compassion to her. So like me, she sought and found understanding online.

We spent a few years online together when we were trying to conceive and/or recovering from our losses. Most of those who were online with us went on to conceive and have children. (After all, only about 10% of women who have an ectopic pregnancy do not.) But Lambsie and I did not, along with one or two others, including the author of the wise "inside out" comment I referenced in my post last week. 

I was lucky. In early 2005, I travelled to London to meet a bunch of women from that messageboard, and went on to stay with a few of the women I had connected with. I spent a lovely few days with Bamberlamb and her adored husband. They had a great relationship, and thought the world of each other. I know he has been her carer in recent months, and has done everything he can to make those comfortable and enjoyable. I hate to think what he is going through now.

Eventually, after several years of being present and supportive of other women, our role became more official, albeit anonymous. We both became EPT moderators, and given an official pseudonym. The moderators had a private site where we could seek confirmation that our information was correct (we were assisted by a medical lead, who had access to some of the world's leading specialists in ectopic pregnancy), share how to deal with difficult people, and work through our own issues. We did that together on an almost daily basis, for six years. 

Bamberlamb/Lambsie had a wonderfully kind way with words. Even if privately she might have been frustrated with a person's attitude or insensitivity towards others (as we all were from time to time), outwardly she was the voice of kindness, of compassion, and most importantly, of no judgement. She never made it about* herself. She was always so eloquent, she always found the right words for the right occasion. It was a skill I often envied. But rather than envy, I tried to learn from her. To know what to say that might help, and most importantly, what not to say. I fall short, I am sure. But I will keep trying, for her.

I met up with her several times in trips to the UK, and I have memories of noshing on cream cakes with her at the House of Commons on the banks of the Thames with some of our friends and colleagues, and a lively dinner with some other friends afterwards. The last time we met in person was 11 years ago. Sadly, she wasn't up to meeting on my last trip, and I completely understand that. My visit was just a little too late. It is frustrating having international online friendships and not being there in person. If I could have made meals, popped in to help with the cleaning, or run errands for them, I would have. I know many of us would have. Just as we know she would have done that for us too. I at least wanted her to know how much she was loved, by so many of us all around the world.

I wish I could have heard her sing in her choir, beyond the one youtube performance I was able to see a few years ago. I'd have loved to have been able to support her. Likewise, I know she was a talented artist. However, she once told me that her losses took away her love of drawing. I like to think that she used that talent, her observational skills, and her  ability to see light and dark and shades, in other ways, not least in her blog.

She gave me credit for starting Its Inconceivable, and becoming active in the No Kidding community. I know that, like me, she missed the messageboards when our roles ended. The support we gave each other also helped us, and without that, life was a little lonelier. It was why I started blogging here, and after a few years of encouragement, she started too, bringing another voice and different perspectives to our number. And she became much more active than I am in one of the UK-based childless communities, continuing to support others even when she was going through something terribly difficult.

Right up to the last, she kept her wonderfully whacky (and sometimes wicked) sense of humour. It is what I will always remember about her. Her humour, and her compassion, and enormous capacity for love. Love will be the prevailing emotion I think of when I think of her. What better legacy could she leave in this world than love?

 

* This post is not about me. Please focus any comments towards Bamberlamb/Lambsie.

The different life lived: 20 years on

Infertility and pregnancy loss and childlessness bring a lot of anniversaries. I have the positive test anniversaries, the loss anniversaries - when the losses began, and ended, when I was hospitalised, and had different procedures - the date I knew I'd never have children, and many more. It's a lot. I've heard people say pick a point and grieve. That doesn't work for me. As the year moves on, as the weather and trees change, flowers bloom, there are so many reminders. That's loss. Anyone who has experienced it in any way will recognise the way it can stay with you. Of course, the last year I've had a lot of 20th anniversaries, and there are a few more to come. The ones with the zero seem more obvious, and they hurt a little more.

This last week it was the 20^th anniversary of my second ectopic expected due date, 31 August. I knew by January that the pregnancy was being lost. Later, I also knew that a good friend from the Ectopic Pregnancy online group was due to have her baby, and we shared the same due date. She had her child, and I never resented it, even though I had expected I might. I am grateful for that. The truth was that I mourned the loss of MY baby, and her baby was not mine. In fact, I felt a connection to that baby (and met her a few years later). Some years the date creeps up on me, and I barely notice it. Most years I’m fine with it, acknowledging what never was, and time passing.

This year though, I have known it was coming. I've felt it more. Perhaps it is the significance of the 20^th anniversary. The acknowledgement of that baby's 20th birthday. Perhaps it is the knowledge that I’m the only person in the world who thinks about it. (My husband doesn’t remember the date, and I don’t like to bring him down by reminding him. It's bad enough that tomorrow is Father's Day here, and he's acutely aware of that.) Perhaps it’s the thought of the childhood completely lost as they would have left their teens this year. It's always the loss of the adult life never even started. Perhaps of course it is also the life never lived by his/her parents – the life we never got to live. It's all made it a little harder this year.

We lived a different life. It has been a good life. Filled with adventures and experiences and friendships I would never have had otherwise. With many more years yet, and many more good things to come, I hope! But every so often, I need to acknowledge what has been lost, and the passing of time. And so today, I do that.

Transformation from trauma

Jess at Finding a Different Path got me thinking about how we transform into beautiful butterflies after trauma and loss. Those of us who have been healing for years or even decades can attest to that.

Butterflies are a good metaphor, not only because of their transformations, but also because of their simultaneous delicacy and frailty, and their strength, as I've observed them flying quickly in strong winds, buffeted about, but surviving and flourishing. Those of us who have healed and embraced our No Kidding lives might be strong and beautiful butterflies, but we are also frail at times, as we carry the scars of trauma with us. The scars can heal into something beautiful, cause us to focus on other joys and benefits of our lives following loss and trauma. My Gifts of Infertility series written a few years ago focuses on that - the positives that come from our trauma, loss, and the life we never expected to have. But they are also reminders, and can hurt from time to time too. 

Going through the process of loss, disappointment, and often trauma, means that we are forever changed. We lose something in that process that I, for one, have never fully regained. Before my pregnancy losses and infertility, I'd almost always been in the happy majority. Sure I needed glasses, but I'd always been physically and intellectually lucky. Even though I can be a good worrier, deep down I also had a degree of blissful ignorance that so much of the population possesses. The world operates on our common belief that "it will never happen to us." That's how we can get in a car every day, or go on a date with a stranger, or splurge on something we can't really afford assuming there will always be new income, or take any of a myriad risks that make up modern day life. But infertility knocks that out of us. My ectopics brought me face to face with my mortality, which was a shock. I learned what it means to be on the wrong side of the odds, whether that is being one of the one in six couples who might experience infertility, or the one in 400,000 who has a repeat ectopic that is an interstitial ectopic. Jess called it being a "tiny percentage person." Once we've been that person, it is hard to ignore it again in the future. I absolutely relate to that.

It has affected me in a number of ways. Initially, when I was feeling very raw and vulnerable, I felt uncharacteristically lonely when I would travel internationally, especially if I was travelling without my husband. Separation from him, something we had been used to because of my job, became quite distressing. That has eased, though I travel on my own less often now. I've since been diagnosed with an unusual neurological pain condition, and experienced almost catastrophic bleeding from fibroids (though the resultant hysterectomy helped), and as a result I'm even more aware that I seem to end up on the wrong side of the odds. I do not, I cannot, assume that everything will be okay. So, for example, I take all the extra precautions when it comes to international travel: the appropriate travel insurance with extra coverage for pre-existing conditions, letting people know where I will be and advising of emergency contacts, signing in to the NZ government's travel website so they know where I will be when I am away, thinking twice about more risky locations, being prepared for baggage loss/plane delay/illness, etc. I think about earthquakes, and ensure we have a lot of supplies (though probably not as many as are recommended, we are still probably better than most in this shaky city of ours). I want to make appropriate preparations for old age, rather than just assuming everything will be okay. We keep private health insurance, just in case. Et cetera. 

Clearly, having come through trauma, I feel less confident at times. I'm aware of my frailty. But likewise, I feel more resilient too. I've developed emotional resources and skills I never had. I'm more confident in myself, and know that I can get through hard things. Jess too, is a great example of this. She's in pain, and is allowed to feel horrible about that at the moment, but she knows it will get better, and that she will get through it.

Ultimately though, I am still aware that I have almost no control over what may or may not happen to me through natural disasters, pandemics, finances, or actions of others. Bad luck happens to most of us, in varying degrees. In some ways, I find that lack of control comforting. After all, if it is so random, it means that I am (almost certainly) not to blame! And that all I can do is try and make the best decisions possible with my knowledge at the time, just as I did around infertility. I prepare as much as I can, but I also accept that life will surely throw things at me that I can't imagine in the future, in just the way that I could never have imagined ectopic pregnancies, dengue fever, hysterectomy, and trigeminal neuralgia. Knowing that I could be in a tiny, unlucky percentage has made life more precious, and has convinced me to embrace life while I can, not to wish for something better, or rue lost opportunities. There is so much in my life to love. I might have lost my blissful ignorance, but I have not lost my bliss.

 

 

The Great Parent-No Kidding Divide

And a lesson in restraint

Spending two weeks with someone with kids can take its toll. Especially when they focus on things that affect them, display a complete ignorance of things that affect us, and it seems, have absolutely no desire to understand. Mainly, this manifests in the parent/no kidding divide. Of course! Are you surprised?

They implied that they had a greater understanding that “life is precious” because they had a pregnancy loss, premature twins, and were parents. Even when I pointed out that I had grieved our losses, they still didn’t in any way ask, show interest, or even any compassion. Because we don’t have kids, they think we don’t understand. Or that we are always going to agree with them.

They continually talked about legacy, meaning both biological legacy and other aspects of legacy. It struck me that it was all about recognition, about being remembered, rather than about their impact on other people. I think people without children are forced to focus on the second, on how we affect other people and what legacy we might leave with them, rather than whether we are recognised for it. Because for me, recognition is irrelevant, as within a few generations (or as few as one generation) we will be forgotten, just names on a family tree on a branch that ended. But maybe a kindness or some wisdom or role modelling will be passed on, and that is our legacy. It's a legacy that I hope I will have.

I heard a lot about how “sentimental” this parent was about their childhood, and maybe their parents. I think I should get a medal for NOT saying “you weren’t sentimental enough to come back more regularly!” Of course, they didn’t need to, and they used their children (as they still do, even though the children are grown) as an excuse.

I also heard a lot about how it is so very hard for a parent to see their child in pain. I don’t think I rolled my eyes, though the urge was strong. Not because I don’t believe them. Of course it is hard for a parent to see their child in pain. Any normal human finds it hard to see anyone vulnerable in pain, especially someone you love. I found it awfully hard to see my parents and parents-in-law in pain, both physical and medical. But really, were WE the right people to say those words to us, in that way?

We had to listen to an extended discussion of the birth of their children. (Over 20 years ago!) The children were premature, so it was scary, and I understand that. And I initially handled it well. But as they went into all the details, and expressed how wonderful it was to touch the babies and take them home, and as they talked about breastfeeding, etc, the scars of my wounds were being pressed over and over again, and it was harder and harder to take.

I restrained myself so often. You should be proud of me! I did not say that I knew exactly how old a niece was because she was three months old and visiting when I was losing my first pregnancy. I did not ask too much about someone we all know because I suspect (though I may be wrong) that IVF and donor egg may have been involved, and I don’t think it’s any of my business. I didn't equate our losses with theirs, or point out that we had also been through some of these things, or always put an opposing point of view. I, of course, found it easier to talk about old age than about the vulnerabilities of infertility and loss. Even though they know something about that. I often avoided wading into a compassionless quagmire simply to protect myself. And I gave myself permission to do that.

Sometimes, though, I very matter-of-factly pointed out our situation without children, and that some of their assumptions were wrong. I did it only when it seemed appropriate or there was an opportunity in the conversation, not aggressively, and tried to keep it open and honest, using our experience as the base example. But for the most part, I tolerated it all. I was in a marathon, and didn’t want to cause any more tension. And the worst thing is that I probably would not have made any difference if I had explained this.

I wasn’t expecting understanding, or even compassion. I usually don’t. Of course, I didn’t receive any either. So it all made me wonder if they honestly think we never felt, and don’t feel, any pain over what we have lost. That our lives aren't as important as theirs. Or if they don’t even see that we have lost anything, because (to quote another friend) “we never had anything to lose?” The answer is both, I think. It made me wonder too how many parents feel and think like this? Sure, this particular person may be especially lacking in compassion and self-awareness, and many other parents with kids don’t always make me feel like this. Some are wonderfully compassionate and open to learning about our experiences. But sadly, I suspect these views and discussions are very indicative of the majority of our fellow humans. As a result, I will admit to feeling rather bruised from this encounter.

Is grief forever?

Is grief the last act of love? This was the subject of an interview, quoted by Mel in her post here.

Whilst I don’t think that grief IS love, I definitely agree that grief is a result of love, and an expression of the love we felt and the loss of that love. In the context of our No Kidding situations, we have loved either the babies we wanted (conceived, birthed, or not) or the role of mother (for me it was definitely the babies I had loved, I was still coming to terms with the idea of being a mother), or the future we had planned. We had already invested love into this. And when we didn’t have it, we grieved.

It was described in the article as the last act of loving someone. “You get to … translate this last act of love for the rest of your life,” said Ocean Vuong, the interview subject. Whilst it is beautifully expressed (click over to see it), I don’t fully agree with it. Because if it is the last act of loving someone, then in means that grief is eternal. And it does not have to be endless. (To be fair, the person is three years into grieving, and so maybe cannot see this yet.) The loss doesn’t have to be felt forever.

More importantly, we can continue to love someone without actively grieving them. I don’t think I grieve for my parents anymore. I mourned them, and I am sad for different aspects of their deaths. But I no longer actively grieve. Instead, I remember with love. Sure, I may feel sadness occasionally thinking about them or wishing I could tell them something. But it doesn’t feel like grief anymore. Continued grief would be pointless - I can’t change anything, I can’t continue to pine. So the best thing I can do is remember the good times, remember what they taught me, and remember the love.

We can love someone, and show that love by honouring them in our actions, when we have already moved through grief. It’s how I feel about my lost babies, my lost motherhood, and my lost future too. I remember them with love. I remember the love I felt towards those tiny flickers of life, the love I felt towards their and our future. I was filled with love for them, and although that led to grief at their loss, now I remember and focus on the love. It sustains and nurtures me. 

I remember and honour the loss of my babies by living well. I honour them by appreciating what I have, rather than focusing on what I have lost. I honour them by becoming a better person, and by giving my love to others. I honour them by writing this blog, and through it their loss means something. I honour them by (I hope) helping others who come after me. I honour them far better this way than by continuing to grieve, or to focus on the grief. Honouring them is a better way of loving them.

I honour my losses, and my pain, the grief I once felt. I do that because of love. Love outlasts grief.