My wish for 2024

Having survived a Christmas with a teen and a three-year-old (and their parents), I was thinking about what actually hurts me now. It’s not really the loss of those experiences, if I’m honest. The three-year-old gave me much joy, as did the fifteen-year-old. They also made me glad that, right now, I do not have those ages in my house. They’re great fun, but they’re both a lot of work in completely different ways. And as I said last week, they’re not MY kids. And what I missed was “MY” kids, whoever they might have been. I don’t allow myself to miss them now because it is impossible to know what they would have been like. The possibilities are endless, as would be the pain if I allowed myself to imagine it, so I just don’t. It’s pointless. So I don’t.

Anyway, what I was starting to say (and got distracted), is that what causes me pain now are barbs that paint me as other, as less, as someone who “doesn’t understand,” as someone who is inferior because I haven’t had that experience, or as someone to be pitied. Directed personally at me, or comments made generally by people I don’t even know, the unintentional comments, the slights, the deliberate or unconscious othering and ignoring of my/our situations hurt. These are what set me apart, remind me that I did not have an experience that so many people had, and imply I am not a full equal member of society. Yet I’m not really allowed to talk about my experiences as a comparison, though I do when I can. If only the “as a mother” comments could be responded to by the “as a childless person” comments – both negative AND positive. If I felt I could talk about the personal growth I’ve been forced to undergo just as a parent is forced to “grow up” when they are responsible for a little one, I think I would feel more seen, more included in general society. If I could acknowledge both the loss and gains of being childless, just as a parent has to acknowledge that they lose when they also gain so much when they have children, my life might feel more “normal.” Of course, I’m sure many parents feel they can’t talk about the hardships of being a parent. I’ve always thought that was ridiculous, and it needs to change. We all need to empathise more with each other, to see each other's perspectives, and to recognise all our collective griefs and joys.

That’s my wish for 2024, which will have begun in New Zealand by the time I post this, and beyond.

Happy New Year, and I wish you all the very best for the coming year!

Being No Kidding and Happy

I've been thinking a bit lately about healing, remembrance, and expectations of life. I know I've talked a lot here about turning away from the "what-ifs," about retraining my brain* not to think about the negatives of my life, about not tormenting myself with the things I have lost. But it's worth mentioning again, as I've been reading a lot about this recently. Chelsea Handler’s skit on The Daily Show about being happily childfree led to a lot of writing and commentary on being childfree vs childless vs parenting, about envy and pity. Writing elsewhere has reminded me of people who have always struggled to let go of their grief, the what-ifs, the things they’ve missed out on doing with their children. A woman twenty years ago who told me that, in her 60s, she still dissolved into tears at the doctor's office when she saw mothers and children. Others who admit to torturing themselves with the thoughts of what they have missed. And sadly, many more. And Mel asked if we would choose to forget the most painful times of our life. All this has led to this long-winded post. Apologies in advance.

Previously, when I've talked about people (in general) who might be stuck in their grief, those who almost seem to find comfort in the familiarity of that grief, some readers have become angry with me. They have challenged me, raging that I didn't understand, that I clearly had things easier, that I was insensitive to their grief, that it would never go. None of that was true. I am well aware of what they have lost, I have lost, what we have all lost, although of course each of our losses are very personal. But mostly those who were raging were still in the early, rawer phases of grief, when it seems like a betrayal to accept that life might get better, that they can be happy. Still, they needed to read this. And when I write, I also write for those who want and need to feel hope, and to see that happiness is definitely possible, and the grief doesn't consume us forever. Or it needn't. Because there are, of course, some who struggle to let it go, year after year, even decade after decade. And I feel for them so much. Because it seems that they haven't learned or accepted that they can still remember, and honour their struggle, even benefit from it, without feeling the pain and the loss all the time.

I can say that I am happy without kids. At the moment, not having children doesn't really affect me (though I know it will when I am older, and I am trying to plan for that). I am not confronted by it every day, although I do think about it every day through blogging, reading blogs, life, if that makes sense. It is a lens I see life through, and my life is changed and affected by it, of course. But I certainly don't grieve it every day.

That's the thing. If I continue to grieve it, to cling to that grief, I am simply torturing myself. And who would that hurt? Me. No-one else. It achieves absolutely nothing, except making me feel bad, alone, rejected, lost, maybe a failure, maybe resentful, or angry at myself. Moving on from that took time – I went through a process I call "retraining my brain." (I've blogged about it a lot - see the links below*) I just didn't let myself think about the what-ifs, and would consciously turn away, turn towards thinking about other things. It was hard. It hurt, and hurt a lot, because each time I changed the way I was thinking, I had to acknowledge why I had to do it. I had to remember that because I would NEVER have children, I needed to think about other things, think about the future. Those acknowledgements were painful, but I learned that by switching my thinking, the pain didn’t linger as long, and that I could open myself to feel excitement, enthusiasm, and joy.

It wasn't that I was hiding from my pain, or refusing to deal with it or acknowledge it. I had been through a lot already, and continued to do so. Talking to others, counselling# them and being counselled, examining why I was thinking and feeling the way I was, and whether it was valid. It was all hard work, but important healing work. And I realised I was getting nothing from my pain. I wasn't getting confirmation that I would have been a good parent (I would have been as good as anyone else!), and my pain was not an expression of how much I wanted or deserved it, because I came to realise that none of this deserving-vs-guilt thinking was true.

In going through this process, I was learning to challenge the negative voices and silence the inner critic, to recognise my own truths, to grow in confidence and compassion and awareness. And I have seen others go through this same process. Some quietly, some angry then letting go of their anger, some quickly, and some slowly but surely. And some of the people I have seen grow like this are on my No Kidding blogroll. It is so wonderful to watch. To remind people coming after us that it is possible. To see their worlds open and brighten. To find the joys and wisdom and understanding that is behind that dreaded door in the Infertility Waiting Room.

None of this means there aren't painful things that still arise, either. Reminders of the pride and joy of being a parent can both instil pride and joy in me, or pain, often both at the same time, depending on the day, the people involved, my mood, maybe even the weather! But last night I was mulling this over, wondering how I feel about not being a parent at this point in time. To be honest, I don’t really know. I don’t know how parenthood would have turned out, so it’s pointless to imagine the perfect life there. I have a different life now, and that’s all I know. I like my life. I’m happy. That’s the only thing I can be sure of. The lack of children, right now, do not make me feel so bad. The growth that eventuated from the loss - well, I'm glad I have it. When I think about it, it is really only other people who can do that; society, politicians focusing on families and only families, the Pope calling childless people selfish, those who pity us condescendingly, the parents who try to pretend that they are morally superior simply because they have children, former friends who ignore us, family members who never try to understand. Interesting, isn’t it? And why do I give them the power to make me feel bad? Increasingly, I do not. They are ignorant, that's all.

So I very much choose to make the most of the life I have, and to enjoy it. To celebrate the positives (the gifts) of my life, some of which are there precisely BECAUSE I don't have children. It's not a betrayal of the part of me that wanted to have children. It's a way of supporting that part of me, of nurturing the hurt Mali, of loving her, of acknowledging her growth. It’s not a betrayal or rejection of the pain I went through, it’s a remembrance of that and the knowledge that I emerged from it changed, wiser, but still me. It's not a betrayal of the pregnancies I lost – rather, it honours those tiny sparks of life. Because if I don't embrace this life, I will have lost two lives – the life I wanted, and the life I actually have.

 And wouldn’t that be immeasurably sad?

 

Notes:

*  A selection** of previous relevant posts:

• November Seven Years Ago  
  
• Our deep-fried brains 
• The Logic of it all 
• Training our brains 
• Personal Growth: it will change your world
• Getting Over It 

**   This is far from exhaustive. Exhausted, maybe, as I got distracted, and now I'm tired and it is time for dinner.  Apologies! I may add more later. ;-)

#    On the other hand, I make no apologies for NZ spelling, even if blogger doesn't like it. "Counselling" has TWO Ls and "instil" has one! 

Carrying it well

I thought I was taking the easy way out today, when I decided that I would tap into scribblings I’ve made in my notepad apps for future blogs. I did it on A Separate Life here, but got stuck in a quagmire when trying to write this blog, perhaps because the issues are a bit deeper, less trivial, and speak to me more. But I’m still taking the easy way out, because this song speaks our truth. I am not someone who usually listens to song lyrics, and I’m probably not telling you anything new, but this is worth checking out.

Of course, it reflects so many people’s feelings. And it is appropriate for my No Kidding friends too. It can be hard. We hide it well. And it will turn out okay.

Carry it well, by Sam Fischer

“Just because I carry it well
Doesn't mean it isn't heavy and I don't need some help
I know I keep it locked down, but all I want now
Is somebody who can tell me how it's gonna turn out
'Cause I thought I'd be doing better by now
I thought I'd be doing better by now
But don't I carry it well?”

Go look for the rest of the lyrics – I don’t want to get in trouble with copyright – or listen to it here:

 

We're not so different

In recent years, I’ve been part of an online support group for a chronic pain condition. I’ve been struck with the similarities between that group and those of us who have either been through infertility, or are childless (for whatever reason). It has made me think about the many other communities dealing with similar issues. Issues such as:

• Incompetent doctors who dismiss the pain of their patients because there is no evident cause, which reminded me of doctors dismissing endometriosis, or sending away ectopic pregnancy patients in pain, or doctors who don’t consider that childless people have lost anything.
• Doctors who are just uninformed, but who do little to investigate the causes and treatments of pain, or who rely on old information, or who refuse to refer patients to specialists.
• Employers who don't understand or who are not able to be flexible to meet someone's specific needs 
• The outside perception that if you appear to be okay, that you are in fact okay.
• Invisible pain, whether it is physical or emotional, leads to that pain being ignored. That leads to anger of others who don't understand why you might not be able to do X or Y, and judgement that you might be shirking responsibilities.
  
• People who can’t deal with the pain of the family members or friends, who have no idea of the severity, who dismiss their pain, or just plain forget that you might be in pain.
• The guilt of the patient for putting their family members through a difficult time – whether that is because they can’t help around home or with children or elderly relatives because they’re in pain, because of the increased burden on their family members as a result, which compares with the guilt of depriving a partner of children, or depriving parents of possible grandchildren.
• How easy it is, when we are in pain, to take on more pain and blame ourselves, tell ourselves we are worthless, that our family and friends might be better off without us.

Does any of that sound familiar? 

But the positives are the same too:

• Even while it might feel like we are alone, we really aren’t. There are communities everywhere who are supporting each other, making their members feel less alone, telling them and showing them that there are others who understand. 
• Discussion and advice about how to deal with pain, and certain situations, about treatments, about doctors, providing new sources of information.
• Laughing about things that others might not understand, or just finding a moment of levity to take their attention away from their pain or grief. 
• Knowing there is somewhere we can be heard without judgement or have-you-thought-about-isms or "here they go again" looks.
• Virtual hugs to others in pain, just wrapping them up in empathy. 
• Role models that it will be okay, that we can survive this.
  

How wonderful it is that technology today allows us to reach out and find comfort across the ether. How wonderful it is that anonymous people can often give more support than people who have known us all our lives. How wonderful it is that there are people who care, and spend their time and energy in helping others, who want to make sense of their pain by helping others. There is so much love in these communities, it gives me hope for the world when we normally see so much division.

It is wider than just these specific communities too. What it shows me is that there are so many people out there who, although they might not have the same exact diagnoses or issues that we have, can still relate to how isolating and difficult our lives can be at times. It reminds me to keep myself open and see the difficulties in the lives of others. It reminds me to stay well away from playing the Pain Olympics, because we never know what someone else is dealing with behind their smiles. It reminds me to exercise compassion. It reminds me that we are not alone. As usual, there is so much more that unites us rather than divides us.

 

 

 

When pain heightens awareness

At the end of The Girl Who Smiled Beads, Clementine Wamariya said something else that I meant to include in my last post, but forgot. That's okay, because having its own post means I can comment on this idea a bit more.

She said (and I will paraphrase a little, because she struggled getting the words out),

"use your ears, not only to hear what others are saying to hurt you,
but to hear ALL the sounds around."

She recognised that it is so easy, especially when we are in pain, to only hear what hurts us. And this is normal. Suddenly, after a loss or when we find ourselves in a situation we never imagined or wanted, there are slights all around. Part of this is because we have a new awareness of how this world is focused on the majority, and ignores, neglects and insults the minority. Part of it, however, is that we are only capable of focusing on what accentuates the pain we are already in. After all, pain has a way of blocking off everything else around us, insisting we focus on it, and it alone.

But when we have healed a little, have become able to put the pain away for seconds, or minutes, or days (or weeks or months), it is good to start to hear "all the sounds around." Hear the reasons behind the hurtful comments, and the hurt – whilst very different from ours – that often prompts them. Understanding helps reduce the sting of those comments. Hear our own prejudices in addition to that of others against us, and ask if they are fair. And to those who have come out of infertility with children, I'd ask them to continue to hear the voices that included their own voices, just a short time ago.

We all share so much, even when our situations are so different. The experiences of those in pain are often very similar. Let's use our heightened awareness to hear the commonalities in our experience, rather than the differences.

Putting Pain in Perspective: Pain Olympics Revisited

I’ve been thinking about writing about the Pain Olympics again for a couple of years, after a particular encounter. In the meanwhile though, I thought I might copy the majority of a post I wrote back in 2012. I’ve made a few edits to update it, as it was written at a very particular time in my life. (If you’re interested, you can read it in full, and the comments, here).

There’s a lot said in our community about the Pain Olympics – that there shouldn’t be a judgement about who has the most pain, who has it worse. I’ve been hearing this for ten years (edit: by now, it has been 17 years). And I will admit that I’ve never been completely comfortable with it.

I don’t agree that there are no degrees of pain, that all pain is the same. It’s not. My stubbed toe is not as painful as your broken arm. Your broken heart is different from my hurt feelings. Speaking personally, my TGN is – most of the time – scarier now than my childlessness.

But that doesn’t mean we are not allowed to feel those feelings. Just because someone might be grieving or hurting worse than us, it doesn’t mean that our own pain is not legitimate, and that we’re not allowed to grieve. Anyone grieving, hurting, vulnerable and/or stressed deserves our sympathy. Acknowledging someone else’s pain does not diminish our own.

I am going to speak personally here though. Playing Pain Olympics helps me to put my own pain into perspective. Perhaps it is easier for me to do this now, because I’m no longer infertile (ie I am no longer trying to conceive), because I’m comfortable with my life, because I can look back and see my progress. My pain when I lost my first and second pregnancies, when I thought I was facing cancer, and when I learned I would never have children – this was real pain, and intense. I struggled to pull out of it. I remember being told I might have cancer. I couldn't process it, and focused only on the grief that it would mean I couldn't have children. That was the bigger pain for me at the time. My doctors and nurses couldn't quite understand it - but it was my pain, and it was legitimate.

Still, even then, I knew that at least (at the time) I had my health, I was financially secure, I had my brain. I knew that there were others worse off than me. And I think that perspective was important. It allowed me to pull myself out of the doldrums. It allowed me to move on.

So as our pain fades, I think it is only appropriate to put it in perspective. As new pains emerge, it is then easier to put them in perspective too. Perspective is important. But I’m talking about our own, personal perspectives. We do all stand and judge other people’s pain, even if we try not to. It is inevitable. Other people might look at me and say “you never had anything, you never lost anything, you don’t deserve to feel pain over your pregnancy losses, over the fact you can’t have children.” We all know that’s not true. I know what my infertility has meant to me in my life. They don’t. Someone else can’t put your pain in perspective for you! It implies they are not sympathetic, that our pain doesn’t matter to them, that it is trivial, and that we don’t deserve to grieve.

Equally, I can’t try to tell anyone that their pain is less or more than mine (even if I think it). I can however tell myself where my pain fits on the scale. (The scale? My scale, perhaps?) And I will. This doesn't mean I don't let myself grieve. I have, and I do. When it is necessary. But crucially, I also remind myself when I should be grateful too. If I didn’t do that, if I didn’t develop that perspective, I could drown in my own pain, and yes, my own self-pity. If I didn’t put my pain into perspective, I think I’d struggle to understand that I have a glass half full, not half empty. It is what helps me survive.

When I wrote the original post, I’d been through three of the worst weeks of my life, suffering intense physical pain and real fear. But it didn’t last, and I knew I was lucky. The –physical pain receded, and although it has returned, I know too that I am lucky that medication keeps it under control. This isn’t the case for others who suffer, and I feel for them. Then, as I do writing this today, I look out the window, at a beautiful autumn day, at the blue sky, at the setting sun on the trees, and listen to the birds serenading me from the trees above me. I can breathe in, and feel good. Because I know, that right this moment, I don’t have it so bad.

Pain Olympics. They put it all in perspective, and make everything easier to accept. In my view, they are a most important part of healing.