Unselfish, unconditional love

Last week I visited my elderly mother. She needed to attend a medical appointment two hours away, and my sister who lives close to her was away. Last night, we visited my parents-in-law for Father's Day. We took them a meal they like but don't normally buy for themselves, and I baked a chocolate cake. (Twice, actually, but you don't really need to know that I threw the first one on the floor, as it slipped out of my hands getting it out of the oven!) My mother-in-law commented that we are "the only people they have." Practically, she is correct, as her other three sons and daughters-in-law, and seven grandchildren, all live overseas.

Don't ever tell me that the childless are selfish, when so many of us nurture and care for those who need it, without question, with love and support and generosity and thought.

If we are childless, what is our legacy?

Recently, I’ve been thinking about the issue of what we leave behind. I’ve been prompted by reading someone else’s thoughts and fears on this matter for the past few months, as well as visiting my mother and looking at family trees and old photos.

When we are childless, what is our legacy? Do we even have one? Why do we want one? Is it important? And how do we think about ourselves when we think of the idea of “legacy?”

Of course, we don’t have a biological legacy, and our line ends on our family tree. We’re never going to be at the head of a family tree. Ouch. That hurts. But family trees are also always going to be flawed documents. Secret adoptions, mother and child raised as siblings, and illicit relationships all may alter the gene pool unbeknownst to anyone except the mother of the child (and maybe not even her). These days with donor egg, sperm and embryos there is even more scope for genetic inaccuracies to find their way into a family tree. What we think of as someone’s genetic legacy may not always be reliable.

But even if it is accurate, what does it really mean to us? I barely remember the names of my great-grandparents, let alone my great-greats. What is their legacy to me? Maybe I have their curly hair or green eyes or too pale skin, or their intellect or compassion or musicality, or an unknown language ability, or their height or fear of heights. But the point is I don’t know any of that. I know I have my grandmother’s musicality, but apparently not her reputed (but unheard by me) singing voice. I know more definitively that I have my aunt’s diplomacy (though clearly not her modesty!) and love of travel and unwillingness to conform, and another aunt’s love of books and teaching (which maybe we both got from my great-uncle). I hope some of my nieces will have some of my attributes, and can remember that. Beyond one or two generations though, memories fade, and we become just a face in a photo album, or a name on a family tree.

So I wonder, what is a legacy besides genes?

A legacy can be so much more. It can be big, impacting the world, with our names unlikely to be forgotten … not least in the short or medium term. We might be Margaret Cruickshank, New Zealand’s first woman GP whose statue was also the first of a woman in our country, and stood on the main street of our town, inspiring me to know it was okay to fill roles others might think of as “just for men.” We might be Nelson Mandela, teaching others to forgive, or Jane Austen or Katherine Mansfield, writing books that will be read and loved and remembered hundreds of years later. That’s big, and for all of us but a select few, it is unlikely that we’ll have this kind of legacy. I certainly don’t feel the pressure to do something “big” simply to be remembered.

(Note: It is though quite common for those of us who can't have children to look for the next big thing. I have a follow-up (or maybe it's a prequel, or duplicate of some of what I'm saying here) post drafted on this, and will post it soon. )

So if we're not leaving our genes, and we're not going to be Mandela or Einstein, we can still leave a legacy that makes the world a better place. Whether it is because of children we mentor, or lessons we teach, or characteristics we role model to others, or the help we give the less fortunate, maybe our contributions will benefit the wider world. Perhaps we change the world through policy or ideas or actions, or perhaps we just make the world a better place by helping one or two people, helping them live life more easily. A legacy of simply helping one person at a time, one day at a time. This is the kind of legacy I think we can all aspire to – whether as a parent (biological or not), or an aunt or uncle, or friend, or stranger on the internet. It is within our reach – we can all do this. I suspect that those of us who blog in this field all do this to a greater or lesser extent. People read our words, and feel less alone. That isn’t a small thing. To ignore this is, I think, to ignore our humanity, to turn our backs on what we can achieve, and to squander what is good in ourselves. We are more than just our biology, and this proves that. Regardless of what we tell ourselves. Maybe the first and most important step is simply to be more aware of what we think, and what we do?

Will we be remembered for what I do? Probably not. But as I pointed out earlier, after a few generations, we are all – parents or non-parents - forgotten. Time passes, and memories fade. My littlest niece was born after both her grandfathers had died. They are just names to her, and always will be. As we will be to others. Yes, maybe we will be forgotten a little before those who are parents. But this isn’t something that really vexes me. I’ll be dead after all! Wanting to be remembered is, I think, simply ego. (As is the need to leave a biological legacy, although that is also driven by biological and societal imperatives.) It may be natural, but I think ultimately, once we have to give up on the biological factor, it is much easier to give up on our egos. And this is easier as we start – necessarily, in this no kidding life - to see the world with different eyes.

I don’t care if I’m remembered, though I suppose (provided the memories are positive) it would be nice. I’ve never wanted or needed to be famous. And I don’t need to be given the credit for something I’ve done or said or written, if– by the end of my life – it has influenced someone in a good way, someone who then might pass that on to someone else, who might repeat it to friends or relatives or future generations. If that happens, then I can be proud of that legacy. Whether or not anyone knows I did it, it has still happened, and perhaps I was the catalyst, or perhaps I just passed on something someone had sparked in me. If I’ve done or said or written something that has made people feel better, then I don’t know how that might have changed their life, or even the world. I believe in the butterfly effect - I don't think we ever quite know how we influence people, or what changes other people might make in their lives, after even a brief interaction (positive or negative) with us. And whilst I’d like to know if I had made a positive impact, however small, I don’t really need others to know and remember I did it. I still had the impact. I still changed the world, or someone’s world, for the better, and my legacy will live on.

And maybe that’s better than simply possessing the biological ability to pass on genes to a future generation. I think leaving a legacy in thoughts or deeds or emotions is harder though. It takes more effort (even though we all know how much effort so many of us have put into trying to become a biological ancestor). It requires character, goodness, energy, and insight. Leaving a legacy in thoughts and deds this way is not the short end of the stick. It isn’t lowering our expectations, or lowering the bar. It's raising it.

An Important Moment (Role Model Series IV)

In the last (at this stage) of my role models series, I want to honour another woman I met on-line.  She was older than me, having gone through IVF in the early days of the technology, working with some of those early pioneers, including Lord Robert Winston.  I always remember her talking about his compassion. In those days, women were hospitalised for the entire IVF cycle.  Another woman, his patient, had miscarried after IVF, and my friend observed him sit by the bereaved woman's bedside, holding her hand for hours.  How many doctors would do that now?  

Anyway, by the time I knew my friend, it had been many years since the doors had closed on her journey to have children.  She and her husband could not adopt, and they were living a vibrant life without children.  She had nurtured children in her community, and treasured close relationships with a few.  She still grieved - perhaps because she had never had an outlet for her grief at the time she went through multiple pregnancy losses and trauma - and an on-line community both helped her with this, and gave her an outlet for her nurturing instincts.  

She had talked too about a tremendous feeling of relief that came over her when she knew that she had been through her final cycle, that it was all over.  She said that this wave of relief reassured her that she would be okay.  At the time, I was still trying to conceive, still hopeful, and somewhat sceptical frankly, that she actually had felt good at that precise moment that she knew it was all over.  But then, one day, between IVF cycles, I was driving with my husband.  I can't remember our conversation, but I remember for the first time contemplating that the next cycle would be our last, and that after it failed (as I assumed), we could get back to our lives.  I was flooded with relief, almost euphoric with enthusiasm for the future.  All the things I could do suddenly seemed so appealing!  I could plan ahead beyond a week or two, do things with friends, commit to caring for my mother (instead of worrying about cycles and whether I could fly if I was pregnant, etc), travel, commit to work ... start to live again.  It was overwhelming.  

It didn't last, of course.  She had warned me that it wouldn't, and she was right.  The fear and depression returned very quickly, and grief and pain hit me hard when those doors to motherhood were finally closed a few months later.  But the memory of that feeling of relief and euphoria helped me through those very hard days when I knew it was all over.  And I often think of that as we drive over the same highway these days.

I am grateful to these four women in this series, for their honest lives that gave me inspiration at different times of my life, that helped me through difficult situations, and that gave me hope for the future. 

Thoughts about daughters, nieces and mothers-in-law

I actually wrote about this a month or so ago, when Mother’s Day was being held in the UK.  Yesterday of course it was held in NZ, Australia, the US and Canada, South Africa, and probably a whole bunch of other countries.  I was congratulating myself around 5 pm for getting through it okay.  I realised I had seen little advertising, as these days – like so many people – our TV/internet/newspaper consumption is on demand, and we don’t have to sit through schmaltzy advertisements reminding me what I’ve missed out on.  So I was feeling okay, as for the second weekend in a row I was a dutiful wife and daughter-in-law and spent the time with my in-laws.

My mother-in-law loves Chinese takeaways, and only gets them if we visit.  So it’s easy for us to go out to their suburb, pick up dinner just down the street from them, and then have the meal with them.  It’s a real treat for my mother-in-law, as for some reason she never walks the five minutes to buy them on her own.  (That’s a whole different blogpost, that I won’t inflict on you!)  Picking up the Chinese food, the lovely old lady who served us chirped, “Happy Mother’s Day!”  I nodded (it wasn’t her fault), then grimaced – ouch - as we got outside.  It took me by surprise.

Then, as we arrived at the in-laws, the MIL was so excited that her son had come to visit again.  I should feel sorry for her – and I do – that all her grandchildren live overseas, and that three of her four sons do.  Later, we chatted.  She bemoaned the fact that she never had a daughter.  That she used to commiserate with her next door neighbour (mother to two sons) that they never had little dresses hanging on the washing line.  How sad it was that she couldn’t dress up a little girl.  And she does all this in front of me.  And her son.  What I wouldn’t have given to be able to hang up little boys’ shorts and T-shirts on the washing line!  I tried not to let it show.  But of course, she doesn’t notice. 

When her first grandchild arrived (a girl), she never bought her little dresses.  She never did girly things with her.  She doesn’t do that now with her other three grand-daughters, even when she visits them overseas, or they visit here.  And I figure “maybe my life isn’t that bad?”  My nieces know that Aunty “Mali” buys them cute clothes, fun girly things (without being too stereotypical).  An older niece remembers me teaching her to wear mascara, and taking her shopping every year for all her school clothes once she turned 13.  (Her mother would hand me a cheque, and send us off, knowing we both enjoyed doing it together).  A friend’s daughter was delighted when I bought her a bunch of ear-rings for her newly-pierced ears.  And I take pleasure in their pleasure.  My mother-in-law has four grand-daughters, and it is no-one’s fault but her own that she doesn’t have the fun of going into a kid’s clothes shop to buy the most adorable little girls’ clothes.  Besides, one of the benefits of being a gran or an aunty is that you don’t have to worry about how to wash or iron the cutest little outfits.  That’s a mother’s problem, after all.

And finally, I’ve been a member of her family for over 20 years.  So has my closest sister-in-law.  My other sisters-in-law have been around for at least 10 years each.  She has had the opportunity to have daughters, to learn from us what it means to be a young-ish (well, compared to being 87!) woman today and to share life with us.  She doesn’t recognise the role we all play in the family.  It’s not easy to communicate when the family is in five different countries, and most of the sons are dreadful correspondents.  But we – the daughters-in-law - arrange family reunions, we talk and share issues and concerns, we keep that family together.  We may not be daughters – but we’re the nearest thing she’s got.

It seems that this is an exercise in writing as therapy, rather than just a moanfest.  I felt sad last night, but in writing this, I realise how lucky I am.  I take the opportunities I have - I love buying my nieces presents and clothes, spending time with them, relating to them, sharing what I can of myself.  I’ve nurtured a lovely relationship (albeit long distance) with one niece in particular, who is now emerging so beautifully and confidently into adulthood.  Of course it’s not without pain.  But as I said in my previous post, I’d rather have that, than the inability to relate at all.