Childless Role Models and Ageing

Sue Fagalde Lick over at Childless By Marriage has posted about role models, and – in preparation for a Childless Elderwomen discussion – asks whether her readers had role models, and if so who they were, and how they were role models for the childless. I started to respond, realised I was writing a post, and so here I am!

The plethora of writing and blogging and podcasts and insta accounts and Fbk groups and and webinars/zoom chats all came too late for me. I went through the transition from trying to conceive to accepting being childless largely on my own. I had a few friends who don’t have children – some by choice, some not, some in real life, some internet friends – and that helped me feel less alone. They were my supports, rather than role models. I knew of well-known women who had chosen not to have children, but very few if any who were open about not being able to have children. An elderly in-law aunt and uncle were really the only people I knew who didn’t have children despite wanting them. They travelled a lot and were interested in things going on in the community, but were mocked by some of their sisters for other quirks. So I never thought of them as role models, and we never talked about it with them. Twenty or so years ago, no-one talked about it – in public, or even in private, with me. Oh, except one woman who was temping at my work. I’d almost forgotten her. She talked about how hard it had been, but how she was happy ten years later in her 50s. I can’t even remember if I had told her about our situation, because at the time I was a) still trying to conceive, and b) was very very private about it.

I did find two books – one was Sweet Grapes, but I can’t remember the other – but they were of little help. Sweet Grapes talked about the idea that since they weren’t trying to have children any more, they were no longer infertile. I remember trying to embrace the idea, but being unable to. I did not feel that way yet. I still don’t really. So I had no role models. No-one I could relate to who had tried to have children, didn’t, and was happy anyway.

So in those years of coming to terms with not being able to have children, I had no-one I could look to as a role model. By necessity, I was figuring it all out myself, chatting occasionally to one or two who were in a similar situation through our ectopic message board. I had to – by necessity – establish my own identity, encompassing the childless part, but not allowing it to dominate all of who I am. It was hard work, and required a lot of thought and heartache, years before I even began blogging over thirteen years ago, and long before Pamela and Jody and others started building the childless community. Actually, I’m grateful I was able to do that, even though it was lonely, and really hard. I didn’t want to be given a stereotype of how I should be – I had resisted the stereotypes for girls and women for so many years after all. So it was very important to me to figure out who I am, what I value in life and in myself, what being childless was going to be like for me. As Sarahg said to me many years ago, even knowing what needed to be done, I still had to do it myself.

That is why I have blogged, why I grit my teeth and accept requests to speak out or write articles, etc, under my own name. I do it so that others can see that they're not alone, and that they will be okay. And it is why I am now talking more frequently about ageing. It's not to be a role model - other than perhaps to help others feel okay about figuring out who they are too. We’re all different. I love to travel, to write, to think and talk about these issues. Others don’t. I have a friend in a similar situation who rarely mentions it, never even told her family, but lives a busy, happy life, filled with love and nieces and nephews and friends and young colleagues she inspires. Her motto is “the purpose of life is to enjoy it.” I love that. There’s no one way to get through this, other than to decide that we will. And if, in doing that, we become role models for others, then that is wonderful. It can be on a small scale, like my friend, or on a global scale, like Jody Day and Pamela Tsigdinos and others who are ensuring that our community is heard.

The online childless community was only just coming into being fifteen years or so, as blogging boomed and social media saw the development of online communities and relationships. And so discussions of ageing without children, or of having No Kidding role models, is relatively new. Because the focus has often been on those going through the initial hard years of grief and adjustment. Rightly. Thankfully, now, there are plenty of wonderful role models out there now for those going through this very difficult transition – so many of my blog readers are now role models themselves, as well as Pamela and Jody and Sue and many more.

But for those of us who are ageing, there are few role models. I certainly don’t have any who are years ahead of me, who can show me the way. But you know, I’m okay with this. I want to figure it out myself, and that’s what I’m doing. I’m talking about it here when I can, often writing to find out what I think. I do it both because it helps me, and because I think that women in their 60s and beyond who speak out now might help flag issues for the rest of the community. We are losing parents, adjusting to the idea of ageing, knowing what ageing is like at all stages of old age, and becoming aware of issues many are only just beginning to think about. Some are themselves facing issues that I might not yet have faced, or might be thinking about, and that younger readers have put in the “I’ll think about it when I need to” or the “Not Necessary Yet” box. Some will have answers. Others will not, or will just raise more questions. That’s okay. What is important is that we are all having the discussion.

The Childless Childless Elderwomen will be discussing role models on 20 December (Europe/US time). To get the link, register here. I’ve just done it.

 

A snapshot in time

I’ve occasionally read posts by people who, after they have had their babies, have wished that  they could send a snapshot of their lives today back to their younger selves, a year or two ago, so that they could see that they would be okay, that they would get their “happy ending.”

I read these posts, and wish too that I could take a snapshot of my life now, and send it back in time to show myself when I was "in the trenches," or just at the end of my journey (and the beginning of the next one). I wish that the woman who had been stuck in the trenches, or was enduring loss, or was suffering in those first days, weeks and months after learning I would never have any children, could see the snapshots I’d send now. Could see in fact, the snapshots I’d have sent over the last ten years. I wish those who are now right in the midst of despair could see themselves in the future – happy and fulfilled, not despairing or bitter or sad, not living grey lives of unremitting sadness. I know many of them can’t imagine they’ll ever be in that position. And don’t want to imagine this. But they will.

Still, which ones would I send?

I could send a snapshot of me sitting at the computer, volunteering, helping people who were going through loss and infertility, learning more about myself every day, feeling valued, and having that reinforced by responses like this:

“ … this year was made so much more bearable by your kind and thoughtful and encouraging words.”

I could send snapshots of my travels, perhaps most recently of me hiking up to the Monastery in Petra, at the start of a five-month trip, to show that there is still excitement and adventure in my future.

I could send a snapshot of me  (and my husband) meeting Klara (and her husband) for the first time, or of a reunion with my ectopic internet friends a few months later, still close after over ten years.

I could send a snapshot of me chairing the Board of Directors after we had signed a huge contract, feeling relatively confident (never 100% - that just feels like arrogance to me), and managing to herd difficult personalities towards a result I wanted.

I could send a snapshot of me with my nieces, young and old, enjoying their company, loving them, shopping for them, no longer afraid of the feelings they might prompt.

Or I could send a snapshot of my husband and I celebrating our thirtieth wedding anniversary, happy and enjoying life.

Just because we didn’t get the result everyone who is still “in the trenches” desperately wants (to put it mildly), we can still take snapshots to show that a No Kidding life doesn't feel empty or shallow, but rich and fulfilling. Although we can’t send a snapshot back in time to our younger selves, maybe there is as much or more value in these snapshots if we take them and show them to those who  follow.  

Talk to me

I've had an idea.  If I'm honest, I didn't have the idea.  I am copying someone else.  Even before I made my first ICLW comment on a new blog, I read something that interested me.  My Life is About the Journey invites emails from individuals who genuinely seek advice on parts of her journey, to help them through similar experiences, to share the wisdom.  What a lovely idea, I thought.

The reason I keep this blog is twofold.  I like sorting out my own thoughts about a No Kidding life, and writing is one way to do that.  Having an outlet for my thoughts and frustrations, and knowing I have a place where I'm not alone, is my major motivation for keeping this blog, even all these years after my initial losses and my entry into a post-infertility No Kids life.  But the secondary reason is that, now I no longer volunteer at a loss/infertility website, I also wanted an outlet where my own experiences might help others.  I try to maintain an open, friendly and welcoming atmosphere here.  But still, blogs often create a relationship at a distance.  

So I have created another page with an invitation to email me, with questions, or suggestions for new posts, based on my own experience.  I might regret this!  I hope I don't get hit by spammers, or the "just adopt" brigade who have left some nasty comments on my blog in the past.  (The delete button works wonders!)  

But as the years pass, and I find it harder to find new topics for posts, I thought I might try it. After all, I want to remain relevant, not just for those who are at a similar stage of coming to terms with a life without children, but also for those who are dealing with loss, and might be facing the prospect, or for those who are newly entering a No Kidding Life after infertility or loss.

It's an experiment.  But I figure it's never too late to try new things.  

A rash impulse or a sound commitment?

As you can see on the sidebar, I have signed up to ComLeavWe, or International Comment Leaving Week.  It means I've committed to a week in August (21-28) of leaving six comments a day on blogs.  Now, many of you may do this every month, and will roll your eyes at both my enthusiasm and trepidation.  Feel free!  I have only done IComLeavWe a few times, though, so this is a big deal!

I do try to comment regularly, I probably average a couple of comments every day, but committing to six is going to be a stretch, especially with the issues I have commenting using the combination of an iPad and Feedly and an occasional dodgy internet connection. But it is good to commit to something.  

One of the reasons I don't do this regularly is that I don't hang out on infertility blogs - the women still trying to conceive, or going through an adoption process, unless I've known them for a while.  It's been many years since I was trying to conceive, and so their world is not my own.  Not any more.  Finding new blogs of interest to me, or where I might have something cogent to say, is therefore not always easy.  But I realised I haven't hunted around for new blogs to follow for a while now, and there may be other blogs that I read regularly but where I don't comment, and so I'm embracing the spirit of this.

And after all my discussions about role models and hidden doorways and different paths, and after reading a post today about our path being dimly lit, I've decided it's time to shine a bit more light on a no kidding life.  And to stop just doing it here where I'm cosy and comfortable, but to reach out and maybe do it elsewhere too.  Even if all I am doing is showing that we won't lash out in bitterness or jealousy, and that others don't have to censor themselves around us, and that in due course, we can cope with their journeys, even if they are on the path that we once wanted to tread.
I just hope I remember come 21 August!

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. 

Remembering a casual conversation (Role Model Series III)

When I was in my 30s, I remember chatting to a colleague over Friday evening drinks.  (I confess, I cannot even remember her name).  She was around 50, and commented on the fact I didn't have children.  She shared with me that she had desperately wanted children in her late 30s and early 40s, and that it had tormented her that she couldn't.  

But then she insisted that now, in her 50s, she was very happy without them, and in fact in many ways she was pleased that she never had children.  In particular, she talked about how strong her relationship was, and how the freedom from focusing on raising children allowed her and her husband to focus on each other.  Together their relationship was much stronger, and she was grateful for this every day.

Whilst I ignored her warning to ignore my biological clock (it was ticking loudly by then), I think the knowledge that she was happy, despite having dearly wanted children, helped me when it became apparent that we too could never have children.  

Grace under pressure (Role Model Series II)

Living in Thailand in the early 90s, I became close to a Thai staff member, Wilai, who had never had children. 

 "We waited for the right time to have the baby, then the baby never came," is how she described her life.  She had done everything right, waited till they were educated and financially sound, and living in the same country.  But maybe she had waited too long.  Or maybe it would never have happened.  She was sad about the outcome, there was no denying that, but accepting.  When I knew her she was 40, so only really beginning to come to terms that her dream wouldn't be followed through.  She stressed to me that if I wanted children, I shouldn't leave it too late.  Maybe I should have listened to her?

We worked very closely together.  She helped and encouraged me speaking Thai, tolerated my long conversations with her husband about Thai politics, and got me into exclusive meetings with prominent political figures where I was (thanks to my background as an AFS exchange student) the only foreigner there.  When the frustration of work or head office got too much, we had lots and lots of laughs together.  She helped my husband throw a surprise 30th birthday party, and ensured the local staff always included me when they were having khaoneeo, somdum and gai yang for lunch.  She also said one of the nicest things to me that anyone has ever said, and I'll always cherish her for that.

Her reach was far greater than just helping me, though.  Wilai was one of the most compassionate, wonderful women I have ever met. She delighted in the children of friends and colleagues.  She adopted dogs (and in Thailand, there are a lot), was kind to the more needy in society (and in Thailand, there are a lot), and treated everyone - whether they were an Ambassador, a high ranking government official, in high society, or the driver or cleaners at work - with love and respect and dignity.  She was not a mother, but she was still making her mark on life, affecting many individuals for the better.  By setting such an example, she made us all better people just by knowing her.



Note:  If you'd like to follow links to A Summer Afternoon, email me on malinzblog at yahoodotcodotnz and I'll add you to the list of readers.  
Update:  Having seen the click-through stats, I've take A Summer Afternoon public but will do so only for a week or so.

Worst nightmare or role model?

We often talk about the fact that those of us with no kids are persona non grata on many infertility blogs and sites because we are their “worst nightmare.”  A comment on my previous post got me thinking though.  Would young girls, thinking about their future, look at us and see us as their worst nightmares?  Or would they see us as legitimate role models, offering so much more than the black and white world of hope or despair?

As a little girl, I looked up to my aunt, not because she was a mother (she was), but because she was a successful journalist, and because she and her family lived in our capital city (where I live now), and had lived overseas in the exotic Solomon Islands, with many adventures.  Yet she too had grown up in the small rural district where I spent my childhood.  She was one of my few female role models whose mere existence promised hope of a wider world than motherhood on a farm.  (Motherhood on a farm, from my perspective as a young girl in the 1960s and early 70s, was not very appealing.) 

I was the type of girl who would have responded wonderfully to a role model like the adult Mali.  Think, too, of other little girls who might feel trapped by our pro-motherhood societies – little girls who can’t wait to grow up and explore the world, or perhaps rule the world, before they think about being mothers; little girls who don’t have mothers, or who are afraid of being a mother, because they don’t have happy memories of mothers; little girls who don’t have memories of happy mothers; little girls who simply don’t want to be mothers, little girls who don’t feel like little girls, and many more.   Seeing happy confident women without children might make their lives easier, less pressured, more accepted. 

I know though that there are young girls who only see their future as mothers, and who look forward to that. Would learning that some women don't or can't become mothers terrify these little girls? Are we really their worst nightmares even at such a young age? It shocked me to think this might be the case?  I of course don’t know the answer.  I do know though that I think it is terribly sad if the reality of my existence would frighten a child.  Sad for me, sad for the child, sad for society and our inability to accept diversity.

Instead, I like to think that young girls who want to grow up and become mothers would look at women like me, and just absorb the fact that the world includes women who are mothers, and women who aren’t.  And because there are many more women who become mothers than not, that they will just assume they will be in the majority too.  (I mean, didn't we?) And I like to think that none of this would disturb them from continuing with their dreams. 

Instead of being seen as a scary nightmare, I want to live in a society that allows us to talk about the fact we don’t have children to adults and children alike.  I hope that I can be a role model for young girls (as well as teenage girls and adults), who will grow up with a greater sense that they are okay as they are, whatever happens, and that will be accepted as such.  Freedom – for adult women and young girls alike, and especially for my much-loved niece who does not have an easy path in this life - to simply be who they are.  Knowledge that they are valued for who they are, whatever that might be.  That's a lesson I wish I had learned when I was six.