Shared experiences (again)

 I belong to a Fbk page for TN (Trigeminal Neuralgia) which is an invisible nerve pain condition. I don’t regularly read the posts there, because so many are in chronic and severe pain, and it can be both scary reading about it, wondering if that will happen to me, as well as it can make me feel like a fraud, because my pain has so far been reasonably well managed. Still, the other day I saw someone talking about raising the issue of the condition and of their pain with others. Many of them struggle to get any form of understanding or tolerance of their pain from friends or family members, and so suffer (literally) in silence. Someone said the following:

“I still think it is worth persistently and politely pulling people up, and explaining why, though.”

I agreed wih them. And I guess that’s why I write this blog too. Because, like TN, not having children can be an ongoing source of pain for many members of our No Kidding community, and yet it is invisible, ignored, disenfranchised. When I casually mentioned TN once, a friend said to me (innocently), “but you don’t get that now, do you?” And I had to explain that every day I feel it, I’ve learned to live with it, and that I am lucky that medication has helped me so far. That’s not unlike those of us without children. Every day we live with it, we feel it because we know we don’t have children, our friends and family assume that we are fine now, and so we are ignored.

I guess it’s just another example that there are so many of us in society who feel marginalised, misunderstood, and in pain, for a myriad reasons. There are more people who might understand our situation than we realise. So maybe talking about it, both to spread the word to others and to get support from each other, is all we can do. Which I guess is what I try to do. Calmly (I hope) explaining our No Kidding lives when I can. Writing here and thinking. Walking alongside all of you, and feeling grateful for the fact that you are walking alongside me too.

 

Celebrations vs Grief - a place for both

I've been thinking a lot about celebrations recently. It's part of the New Zealand culture that celebrations shouldn't be (too) over the top, and that we should pay tribute to, or at least be thoughtful of, the unlucky amongst us, whether it is a sporting event, career achievement, or anything else we might be celebrating. Fair play and humility are important to us.

Perhaps that's why I feel I am less willing to keep silent when it is perfectly legitimate to talk about my losses, or my situation. I've written about this before, four years ago, in Practising Self-Compassion. I don't think that we need to keep silent, for fear of upsetting other people or diminishing their happiness. Because our feelings are just as important as those of other people.

I'm writing this after reading Loribeth's post about wondering how to acknowledge the anniversary of losing Katie this year, because on the exact same date her nephew and wife are having an OB-GYN appointment for their pregnancy. She's a nice person - she doesn't want to upset them. Society tells us that we are supposed to put other people's happiness before our own grief. We feel it is unfair to ask others to ever-so-slightly subdue their own feelings about their good news, when their celebrations - sometimes gloating - can cut us to the core, or kick us when we are down. When actually, the fact that someone might think twice about celebrating, or how they celebrate, in front of us is not a bad thing. They can whoop and cheer behind closed doors, with other family and friends. They will have plenty of people celebrating with them. Their joy will not be diminished. But if it is, with an awareness of how bad it might make others feel, is that a bad thing? I personally don't think so. I think it can be a teaching moment, and contributes to a better, more thoughtful, world.

I think - as I said in the comments to Loribeth's post, and as I've said here before too - that this is one of the reasons why pregnancy loss and infertility are so misunderstood. We don't talk about it because we put other people's feelings before our own. That's what Loribeth is doing, because she is a lovely, thoughtful person, and because she adores her nephew. But her loss was huge, and deserves recognition. At the very least, she deserves to show herself self-compassion, and allow herself and her husband to honour Katie and their loss in the way that feels right for them.

The thing is, I often think that we worry that our news or situations or sometimes our very presence will bring people down. Whereas I think the reality is that, unless someone has been through what we have been through, they don't recognise the pain of individual days, or events, and they are easily able to dismiss our situations because "it won't happen to them."

The reality, I believe, is that if she posts about Katie, and her nephew and their wife see it, two things may happen:
a) they will feel compassion for Loribeth and her DH, I'm sure, and
b) they may feel increased anxiety about their pregnancy, for an hour or two.

If they get good news, as we all hope they will, they'll either
a) forget any small sliver of anxiety, and/or
b) feel even more grateful that they have a healthy pregnancy.

The one thing I'm confident of is that they will be surrounded by the good wishes and shared joy of family and friends, including Loribeth and her husband.

If the couple get bad news at their appointment:

a) they will worry, feel anxious or grieve regardless of what was said or not said earlier, and
b) they will have been reminded that they have an uncle and aunt who understand, and who will be there to support them.

Victory and defeat, joy and grief, celebration and commiseration don't have to be mutually exclusive. The bad things don't need to be hidden. The good things in life can be even more precious when the bad things are openly known, are talked about, and are mourned.

Of course, it's easy for me to say. I don't have this particular dilemma. But I'll admit that I'm tired of us always being the ones who have to tiptoe around others, who have to swallow the slights, the casual thoughtless remarks, who have to make allowances when we are hurt. I'm tired of squashing my feelings in the interests of "being polite," when it is not reciprocated.  I don't think an occasional, polite, diplomatic mention of my own circumstances is inappropriate. In fact, I will defend it strongly.

I hope that whatever any of us would decide to do in similar circumstances, we are reassured by the knowledge that this loving No Kidding community of women and men will give support and understanding, and that we will our needs - the needs of the minority - will always, in this space, come first. As I said above, there are plenty ready to be cheerleaders for the majority, and to celebrate the unbridled joy (we sincerely hope) of those lucky enough never to feel this particular loss.

A teaching moment

I was really pleased to see that my No Kidding menopause series - or for search engine purposes, my Childless menopause series - sparked a discussion around the internet. It wasn't my first foray into the subject, but it was my wordiest! Just to remind, here are my posts.

12 Things I wish I'd been told about the Big M (posted back in 2014)
A No Kidding Menopause: The Bloody Version
A No Kidding Menopause: The Emotional Issues (Part 1)
A No Kidding Menopause: The Emotional Issues (Part 2)
A No Kidding Menopause: The Emotional Issues (Part 3) 
A No Kidding Menopause: Some Final Thoughts

Having written so many pieces on this issue, I've taken a break from thinking about other childless things. But there's always something, or someone, who reminds me. I was at a function over the weekend, filled with in-law relatives. I got chatting to a woman who was the wife of a cousin-in-law. I've heard about her for years and years - her many children, her personality, her relationship - via her mother-in-law and my mother-in-law - so although we didn't know each other, we knew about each other. Or so I thought. No, in a conversation about all the elderly relatives and getting them organised when they could no longer do so, and the general difficulty of decluttering their houses, she asked me if I had children. (An aside: given that I knew that she had six, I had assumed she would have known we had none. But apparently not. It shows that people are only really interested in themselves!)

"Well," she says, "you won't have nearly as much junk at home than if you had had children."

"No," I acknowledged, "that's probably true." And - thinking fast, deciding should I or shouldn't I? - I added, "but all our rooms that were intended for children have still ended up filled with junk too."

I said it without emotion, simply stating a fact. The message got through, I think, because she hesitated. I could see her thinking. I hope so anyway. One of many teaching moments?