No Kidding 2020 Project: Day 18 - Remember

When I first experienced loss and for the ensuing years of infertility and loss and coming to terms with childlessness, there were many sleepless nights. My mind would race, go over and over events, trying to imprint it on my memory, afraid that I would forget the details, the pain that I was experiencing, the thoughts I was having about my experience. I was afraid I would forget everything I’d been through. I was afraid that forgetting was a betrayal of the babies I’d lost, of the losses my husband had experienced, and of my own desires. I was afraid too, that acceptance meant forgetting all of that.

It was odd, for me, because my memory has pretty much always been a real strength. I rarely needed to keep a diary, because I could automatically remember dates. I can remember conversations almost verbatim – it drives my husband crazy! Etc. But the fear of forgetting was strong. What I didn’t realise then was that I would never forget. And when I began recording first the hard facts – events, dates, timelines of my losses and treatments – and then my thoughts, I was freed from that need to remember.

But I also learned that remembering is not dangerous. Remembering experiences is how we learn from them. Reliving the pain, feeling everything that we felt at the time, is not beneficial, however. It keeps us in that timeline, restricts our development, and halts our healing. In those years of volunteering with dozens (100s?) of women, I’ve seen women and men who can’t move on, and who get stuck. I’ve found that it is a choice – even now I could put myself back into the mindset and emotions I experienced after my ectopics. But I choose not to, because it is not healthy. If someone really struggles to make that choice, or feels totally unable to do so over time, it is wise to seek help, as reliving, not remembering, is a feature of PTSD.  So the rule is to remember, not relive.

But why remember such a difficult time in my life? As I said, one reason to remember is to learn. By remembering my early days, I realised what helped me, and what didn’t. I remembered what stories I had been telling myself, and with the benefit of time and healing, I was able to question and challenge those. I was able to take lessons and apply them to new situations. Or at least, to know I should try to apply them to new situations, even if I wasn’t very good at doing it in practice! I’ve found that of enormous benefit in the last decade or so.

And perhaps best of all, it allowed me to recapture the love I felt. Instead of feeling guilty about the losses my husband endured, I was able to recapture the love and compassion I felt for him, for the way he dealt with the losses, for the ways he supported me. And instead of reliving the grief of losing my babies, I was able to remember the love I felt for them – before and after conception. (We all know we felt love for our babies, whether or not they were conceived or grew inside us.) Feeling that love helps me smile about my experiences. It helps me know I had it in me to be a loving mother. It helps me feel self-compassion and self-love too. Ultimately, my aim is not to remember the pain, but remember simply the love.

Remember. It helps.

A recent reminder

Usually, when I see photos of children of my ectopic message board friends,I smile. Whether biological or adopted, I’ve followed them since they were born (perhaps since they were conceived and before the first pregnancy test), and feel as if I know them, even though we may have never met. They’ve become part of my life, even if I’m not part of theirs.

But recently I had one of those moments. After our first ectopics, a good friend and I conceived again at the same time. We even shared the same EDD. I lost that baby to another, rare ectopic pregnancy, but my friend’s pregnancy proceeded without difficulty. So her daughter has been a permanent reminder of what I might have had. Most of the time, I’ve been happy for my friend, and remember the bright, happy young child I met when she was small. I don’t allow myself to think, “what if?” because it does nothing for me.

But it was a shock recently to see this young woman all dressed up for her end-of-year school ball (or whatever it was called in the country concerned), possibly at the end of her schooling completely. She was tall and elegant and so very adult. So real. All of a sudden, I'm hit with the realisation and sadness that my own child would have been that age too. All grown up and ready to go out into the world. Many of you know what these shocks feel like. It's been a long time since I experienced that, and so it was a shock. So much so, that I shared it with my husband. I don’t usually do that, as I don’t want to bring him down. We had a moment together, and now I’ve brushed it off. Mostly.

Memories, growth, and gratitude

17 years ago this week, I was learning all about ectopic pregnancies, about what it was to lose a pregnancy, about grief, about hospitals and Drs and nurses, and about dealing with emotions that I'd not had to face before - in fact, about emotions that I had never even imagined I would feel. A year later, at this time I was enjoying a happier experience of the first weeks of a pregnancy, but by the end of the month, those hopes too were dashed. My memories of these times are of overwhelming emotion. Another year later I was in shock, trying to realise that it was all over, and that I would never have children.

What I didn't expect though is that 15 years later I would be able to write about this without emotion, that I would think of my lost babies with love and not with sadness, and that I would have sympathy for the person I was then, and pride for how she recovered. I had no idea that I would have helped hundreds of women in a volunteering capacity, that I would have made friends all over the world as a result of my No Kidding, childless life, and that I would have created a small book that people were actually prepared to buy* with their hard-earned money!

It could be so easy to sit back and bemoan my fate all the time, as sadly I see some people doing in a social media group I have joined, but that would make me (and everyone around me) miserable, and would achieve nothing. Life moves on, we grow, we learn, and we heal, and I am very grateful for that.


* Thank you to those who have bought it - I hope it doesn't disappoint.

It's not all about me

When we think about the impact we might have on others' lives, it's never the things we think about. For example, one of my adult nieces recently posted on Fb about a favourite old movie, tagged her sisters, and remembered that it was a movie I had given them. One of her sisters has separately talked about some of the things we had brought them from our overseas travels, none of which I can remember.

One of my 17-year-old nieces commented that on her last trip to New Zealand, she remembered the most amazing (her words) dessert I'd made them, with chocolate trees (it was a chocolate mousse, with chocolate palm trees as decoration). To her it was important, yet until now, I have always remembered that mousse as an embarrassing failure, as it was the one time I couldn't get the egg whites properly mixed in, leaving little flecks of white through it.

We can't control how others will remember us, and they remember things we have often forgotten. So it just reminds me to be me, and not to try too hard. Because they'll remember the funny things, the small things, the things that mattered to them, not the things that mattered to me.

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.

No regrets. Boom boom!

Last week, when I made a quip in my Microblog Mondays post, I finished the sentence with “boom boom!” and then asked if anyone got the reference. It probably wasn’t entirely fair, because I suspect only Commonwealth (and maybe only UK, Aus and NZ) countries might have seen the old series with Basil Brush. I used to watch it as a child, and had pretty much forgotten about him until that “boom boom!” just appeared out of nowhere.

Would I have loved to teach children to finish their jokes with a “boom boom” exclamation? Of course, but you know, I’m not overly sad about it. To be honest, it kind of tickled me that a little bit of my childhood popped up unexpectedly.

I prefer to appreciate memories of my own childhood for what they are, or for things I do now, rather than live in regret for what might have been. Life goes on, and it’s up to me to enjoy it.

Memories ... still there ...

A week or so ago I had an MRI on my knee, to address the ongoing pain I have had since the accident when I broke my ankle, at a private facility where I have been a number of times; I’ve had two other MRIs there over the years, I now have my mammograms there, and it is also the centre where I had both my HSGs. The first was clear, and as happens quite frequently (anecdotally at least), I conceived only days afterwards. That pregnancy was my second ectopic pregnancy that required a number of interventions over a period of months, and afterwards I needed another HSG that showed both my tubes were now blocked. The blocked tubes meant that my fertility efforts (having already exhausted IVF and other options) were now definitively over. It was scheduled for my birthday, and I’d naively gone to the appointment (as I’ve gone to all appointments at this facility) alone.

Almost 13 years later, comfortable with my life without children, I still choose to sit on the opposite side of the waiting room as I did back in 2003, I still look at the corridor I walked down (and back) for those HSGs, and I still remember standing at the reception paying for the procedure afterwards, holding it together. Getting into the car to leave, even when everything has gone well, still reminds me of getting into the car that day, when I wasn’t so good at holding it together. It doesn’t hurt as much now, but I will always remember.

#MicroblogMondays: Pictures on the wall

It’s Monday, and I don’t have a pithy or meaningful quote prepared for you, or other comments on No Kidding life that I could distil down to eight sentences or less, so I thought I’d talk about photographs. Obviously I don’t cover my house with photographs of my children; instead, it is covered with travel photographs, or paintings or prints purchased overseas, or of a favourite destination. If I’d had children, I think it would still be covered with travel photos, though maybe they would be in the shots. (I've never really understood why you'd have huge photos of your kids on the wall, when they're right there in front of you!)

My black-and-white photo wall has been overdue for a change for a while. The photos themselves are simply printed out on my inkjet printer, and so after five or more years, they fade or yellow. It’s time for a change.

Here are some of the new photos I’m putting up:

It's a sign!

I'm not a believer in signs, I told my friends at dinner a week or so ago.  "But?" they all laughed, knowing that more was coming.

But if I was, I continued, I would think that I'm seeing signs telling us this trip to Italy is the right thing to do. I was amused more than anything - since we had decided to go to Italy and the Middle East, I had received my Cuisine magazine issue that turned out to be all about Italian food, that I'd seen articles about Puglia (one of our planned destinations), and that I'd seen a number plate that seemed, on first glance, to read "Dead Sea."

"I know, I know!" I said, as we all laughed at this.  "It's simply another example of seeing something you're thinking about.  You know, just like cancer sufferers suddenly meeting lots of others who have had cancer, or infertile women seeing pregnant bellies and newborn babies everywhere they go ..."

"Or seeing Dead Sea number plates!" they all chimed in.

Turns out there's a name for this phenomenon, which I learned that night.  It's called the reticular activation system (RAS), and describes the way we can become acutely attuned to specific topics or ideas.  The RAS  goes much wider than our often acutely felt sensitivity to pregnant bellies.  It explains how our brains sort through what is important (ie hearing our names being called at an airport), and what isn't (all the peripheral chaos around us at an airport).  And we can train our minds what to recognise as important.  Not in the way a lot of the self-help books suggest we can (eg.  the ghastly "think positive and you will get pregnant" suggestions).  But perhaps it explains how I managed to reprogramme my brain to stop thinking about babies, stop thinking about pregnancy, and see the positives and benefits of life without children. We've all suffered the effects of our brains' reticular activation systems.  But it makes me happy to know that we can also use this to our advantage.

The city is in bloom

This time of year has memories for me.  Ectopic memories.  Ectopic  (as most of you no doubt know) means out of place.  And that is how my memories of my two ectopic pregnancies come to feel at times.  Whilst they were real, and happened directly to me, and have made me what and who I am, memories of the pain and grief now seem out of place.  Because that pain and grief is no longer part of my life.  And, in the midst of the sadness that is around us just now – children gunned down at school, poor Pacific communities devastated by Cyclone*Evan – I want to remember that we all heal from sadness. 

Right now, Wellington’s pohutukawa** are in bloom.  Pohutukawa is known as New Zealand’s Christmas tree.  An evergreen tree that lines the beaches of the north, it is now ubiquitous in Wellington; its crimson blooms bursting into flower early this year, heralding the forthcoming summer, and holiday season.  One of the sharpest memories I have of the times I spent in hospital for my ectopic pregnancies was looking out the window and admiring the pohutukawa in bloom.  For many years afterwards, seeing the pohutukawa in flower was bitter-sweet, bringing back sharply painful memories.

But this week, as I’ve driven through the city and watched the trees begin to bloom, I’ve felt nothing but joy and awe.  Joy at the forthcoming holiday season, the summer break when we all get at least 10 days off and most kiwis are able to take two, three or even four weeks.  Joy at the thought of maybe finally getting a summer, after such disappointment last year.   And awe at the beautiful coincidence of the perfect red and green colours of the tree.  It is as if nature is celebrating with us!  And in that joy and awe, there is also appreciation.  Appreciation of the fact that pain fades, and time truly does heal.

*Cyclones in the Pacific = Hurricanes in the Atlantic

**We don’t add an “s” to Maori words, even when they are used in the plural.

August; it's not very august

August sucks. 

It’s the middle of winter.  Yes, spring might be around the corner, but we’re not going to get any really warm weather until December, so August is about as far away from warmth as we can imagine.  At least, for those of us living in Wellington.  And so we hibernate, we feel enervated and gloomy, unless we’re amongst the ski enthusiasts, or the lucky ones escaping to the nearby tropics or the warmth of the (further away) northern hemisphere.

It’s also the month I should be celebrating one or two birthdays from the ectopic babies I lost.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not writing this in tears, I don’t even feel particularly sad.  But I remember.  I remember the first August after the first loss.  Then the second August after the second loss, when my first IVF had failed.  (Actually, the second August my husband and I found we had six weeks between IVF cycles, so we took off for a holiday to Vanuatu.  It was lovely, but sad.)  Then seven years ago, my father died in August.  It doesn’t seem that long ago.  And no, I’m not in tears over my father either.  I think seeing someone in pain makes their death a little easier to take.  Yes, I miss him.  OK, I’ll stop there, because that last sentence meant that the tears do in fact threaten. 

This August though, as the other losses fade, there’s a new loss.  I’m about to sever my connection with an organisation that has been enormously important to me.  I’ve talked about it before, so some of you will know the one I am referring to, but right now I don’t want to mention it specifically by name.  I suspect I will sometime in the future, when I feel able.  I feel sad though, and conflicted.  I know my leaving will put the organisation in a bind.  But it’s their fault I’m leaving, and I’ve tried to see a way around it.  But there’s only so much I can give.  My reservoir of goodwill is running dry.  I’m proud of what I’ve done there.  But leaving is yet another tiny loss, and that’s not always easy to deal with, on top of so many others.

August - such a wonderful word.  Its synonyms include dignified, exalted, glorious, grand, imposing, impressive, magnificent, majestic,  superb.  That’s about the opposite of how I feel this August.  So no,

August is not my favourite month.  I’ve been in a funk all month.  But today the sun is shining, the sky is startlingly blue, it’s after 6 pm and it is not yet dark, and I’ve made some decisions.  Spring is on the way.