Time passing

I have a niece staying for a couple of days. She's come from overseas with a friend, and our house is the last stop on a whirlwind tour of half of NZ. I had my first ectopic, and was still being treated for it, in December 2001. We had planned on going south to my family for Christmas, but doctors wanted me to stay close to the hospital, so we had to cancel. And my BIL and SIL arrived with their four month old baby, to meet the in-laws. I don't have much memory of that Christmas, except the first time I saw them with the baby, my BIL absolutely doting on her. It was hard.

24 years later, this intelligent, compassionate, vibrant, beautiful young woman is visiting. It's nice getting to know her as an adult. She mentioned how sad she was that her only female cousins around her age were overseas, and she has never actually met them. I debated saying anything, and then thought it was timely. I don't know what my BIL/SIL have said to her about my ectopics and how we became childless. So I just said, "well, I'm sorry. We did try to give you a cousin about your age." She nodded, and I think she must have known. But it's worth talking about. She's in her mid-20s now, in a long-term relationship, and maybe starting to think about kids. Or not. Her choice. But she needs to know it's not easy. Not everyone gets what they wanted.  Lifestyles can be very different, but still okay. I hope that's her takeaway from our conversation last night, anyway. 

As for me, because I try not to think about it, it was a reminder of the child we could have had, and the stage of life they are in.

However, childless perk alert! I happily think about things that happened 13 years ago, or even 30 years ago, as not that long ago! Until you have two 24 year olds at the table saying, "13 years was a long time ago!" Ouch. But they'll learn! ha ha. And in the meantime, I can be in ignorant bliss about time and ageing, without the constant reminders from young people that I am old! People say kids keep you young. I think not having kids keeps me young. In my head, I'm still about that age! (Okay, maybe a little older. <wink>) 

Finding common ground

We’ve had visitors the last week, our first from overseas for over two years. It has been really lovely – family members with whom we laugh a lot, and are very relaxed. We’ve known each other since our first years at university, and have a lot of history. They, more than anyone else in the family, know my story (though not as much as you all know! Lol).

We talked and talked and talked. Their kids are grown now, but at one stage we were named their guardians (should anything happen), and they know we love them. I reflected (to myself) that it was nice to be included in discussions about the kids. At one stage I was talking with one of them, and my views were taken into account as legitimately as if I had had kids. (In fact, the words were “if you had kids this age, what would you want/think/do?”) The fact that I noticed this might show that it is rare. Or perhaps I am just a bit more aware of it these days. Anyway, it was a very natural conversation, and very much appreciated.

One of the two of them was diagnosed with cancer three years ago, and their prognosis is uncertain. We wondered at times if we would see them (I’m now using gender neutral pronouns for their privacy) again, and they wondered the same, and they wondered if they’d ever get back to New Zealand. The night before they left, the two of us got talking. They said that cancer had helped them appreciate the little things that might otherwise have passed them by, or that might not have happened at all. I mentioned that, although it is not the same, I’ve found many “gifts” from infertility, pregnancy loss, and not having children, and that I appreciate the different perspective and compassion and attitudes I now have or want to cultivate. They agreed, though didn't like the description as "gifts" instead calling them “blessings.” (We have very different spiritual lives.) The effect was the same, though.

We both appreciated that there can be silver linings to even some of the worst diagnoses and situations. All we can do is live the lives we have, as long as we are have them. To do anything else is a waste. And our lives are short.

 

Embracing ALL of my No Kidding life

Almost 20 years have passed since my efforts to become a mother ended. I’ve written a lot about acceptance, about learning how not to think about the what-ifs, about being generally successful at that though not always, and yet I still write about the way other people’s comments or societal attitudes can hurt. At my age, I no longer yearn to have children, or to be a mother. It’s obviously not possible, so instead I embrace my life without them, and enjoy it as much as I can. But that doesn’t mean I am always pain-free. And I’ve been thinking about that a bit recently.

How can I say that I am “over it” and yet continue to write and think about the pain (or discomfort) of not having kids? Are the two mutually exclusive? Not at all. Does it matter? Not really, but I think about this because I once had a correspondence with a woman who argued that not all of us (No Kidding bloggers) had “come to terms” with our situation as much as we had claimed. It has been impossible to forget her words, and the scathing tone of her judgement that was so obvious even in an email.

It's the point I make here a lot. Just because we have embraced our lives without children, it doesn’t mean that we don’t remember what we have lost. Acceptance doesn’t mean that we didn’t care, or that we have not mourned our losses and do not continue to mourn those. Embracing my life without children means embracing all aspects of my life – my past and my future. It is, as Lori Lavender Luz likes to say, a BothAnd situation. It isn’t just the superficial enjoyment of spontaneity, going out on a “school” night, or sleeping in on the weekend, though all those things are good. But one of those aspects of a life with no kids is that I know I am more aware of social nuances between the parented and non-parents, between those who have given birth and those who were unable to or never had the opportunity to do so, and in a wider societal sense, to any of those who feel left out or ignored. 

I welcome that knowledge, that heightened awareness of the differences in our society, as well as what binds us. For example, those of us who are embracing our lives without children are more aware of the way policies or practices in the health system or businesses can result in injustices or inappropriate conduct, and a sterling example of this is Pamela’s extensive work in examining the infertility industry. When we embrace our lives, we embrace all of ourselves, including the grief and loss that we have felt, and the growth and understanding that has come out of that. And of course, it makes us think. And that’s a good thing!

In fact, I feel sorry for those who think that “coming to terms” with our situation means not caring, means forgetting what we have been through, and means that we ignore everything we have learnt. I hope that they figure it out, and can consider this process in themselves as well.

In thinking about this process of embracing my No Kidding life, I’ve recognised that my pain these days is less the absence of the child(ren) I might have had, or the role I intended to fill, but more the feeling that I am “other.” This pain comes from being judged, from being isolated from the community at large, from being ignored by policy makers or marketers or, on a more personal basis, in conversations, in family arrangements, etc. It is the loss of a legitimate place in society. It is being told that we “chose” our situation, and that we should go away and keep quiet as a result. It is, therefore, how OTHERS make us feel, the boxes they try to put us in, the pronatalist society we live in. It is not how we ourselves feel, our sense of self-worth, or what we do in society.

 That’s what is harder to come to terms with, to accept, and to recover from. Because the jibes are too common, and are never-ending. That’s what I brace myself against. I expect I’ll be on the receiving end of this – to varying extents – for the rest of my life. It is also why I do so much thinking about society and my place in it. The more I am sure of my thoughts, the easier it is to deal with these feelings. The more I am confident in my self-worth, the easier it is to dismiss their judgement. The more I can show self-compassion and develop self-confidence, the easier it is to deal with isolation. I only wish that these “others” need to think about that, and the place they play in making us feel like this. Perhaps they are the ones who need to come to terms with our situation, and accept it as legitimate, not us!

So that’s why I blog, and why I cherish the relationships with my fellow No Kidding thinkers and writers and readers, who are helping all of us, Kidding and No Kidding alike, to understand those who do not have children, to provide solidarity and comfort, and to try to make the world more inclusive.

 

 

 

The route to madness

 I was just sitting in the doctor's office, waiting to get a long overdue (three years since my last one - thanks, covid) skin check, reading a book on my phone, when this line struck me:

"... imagining what might happen if one's circumstances were different was the only sure route to madness." 

I love that! It's how I have approached my situation from the moment I knew permanent childlessness was my infertility outcome. When I stopped myself thinking about what my kids would have been like, stopped imagining holding my child in my arms, hugging the toddler or the teen or the grown adult, etc. When I shut down those "what-if" thoughts because they were unkind to myself. When I wrenched myself away from the imaginings of the life I had hoped for.

It was a timely reminder too, if the examination had gone differently, how I would have had to approach a negative diagnosis. (My father died from metastasised skin cancer, and NZ has very high rates due to our high UV levels, so I am well aware of the risks. Hence the check-up.)

I know I've written about this a lot before. It's what happens when you have a No Kidding slash childlessness blog for almost 12 years, and write solely on No Kidding/childlessness issues! Repetition is inevitable. But if I'm honest, I don't mind that. I hope you don't. I'd hate to bore my readers!

In fact, I really like seeing the same philosophies I live by popping up in other contexts, when I'm reading or watching something totally unrelated to my No Kidding life. In this case, it was a formerly aristocratic man in Russia realising his life had forever changed in newly communist Russia, in "A Gentleman in Moscow" by Amor Towles. There are little gems of wisdom we can apply to our No Kidding lives everywhere we look. They help me recommit to enjoying my life as it is now. And they remind me we're not alone. 

Recycling a photo from previous posts

Inaccurate Thinking and Self-compassion

 Some time ago I read six words that I thought were terribly sad. The words were:

“I still wish I had children.”

I found them terribly sad not for the obvious reason. Yes, it is undeniably sad that they wanted children, and were not able to have them for whatever reason. I have enormous compassion for them because of this. I share in that experience. But that’s not the reason why I felt sad for the blogger. I felt sad because, years later, they have been unable to let go.

Sure, I’ve probably thought those words in the past. And yes, there are times when I feel the sadness of not having children, which is maybe what the person meant. That they wish their lives had been different. That they meant to say, “I wish I had had children.” This could all be my misunderstanding of a simple statement. Because I think we all understand that sentiment. I certainly do. Accepting what has happened, and moving into the future, doesn’t mean that we didn’t want something different, or that we occasionally wish it had been otherwise.

But I thought it was worth writing about, because what if this blogger actually does sit in their home, in the present day, years later, wishing they had children? I know there are people who feel this ways. I had an online (and then in real life) friend who would talk about bursting into tears in her 60s because she had seen children or pregnant women at the doctor’s office. She had moved on, but only to an extent.

And if that is the way this person feels, then I feel enormous compassion for them. Personally, I cannot imagine saying the words, “I still wish I had children” any more. I haven’t really felt that for years. The sentiment seems pointless to me. I never had children when I was younger. I’m never going to have them now. It would be a fantasy to wish I had something that is impossible. Why would I do that? There are enough instances in the average day or week that remind me I don’t have children, and remind me what my life could have looked like if I had had them. I don’t need to fantasise. Yet obviously, some people still do it.

Of course, it may work for them. We all cope differently. They may have a moment or a minute or an hour wishing they had children, have a bit of a cry, and then move on with their life. Of course, if they feel better after that, then they have found a way to mourn and to live. It may work for them, but it wouldn’t work for me. If I did that, I would be only focusing on what was bad about my life without children, and I would be thinking about only the good things about having children. It would be negative thinking, not accurate thinking. It would be living in a fantasy world, rather than acknowledging the good things in my life today. Some of those good things are a result of not having children. But worst of all, if I felt that way and allowed myself to regularly feel that way, it would be extremely emotionally difficult, and incredibly unkind to myself. I can’t imagine letting myself feel that way, and then wrenching myself away from the fantasy back to real life. A form of self-torture!

Teaching myself NOT to wish that things were different was a major step in healing. It was the beginnings of acceptance, and was, in reality, the first step of that process. I remember opening a cupboard where I used to keep the folic acid. There were still some tablets left, and I thought, “maybe, just in case, I should keep them.” Then my logical brain kicked in. “That’s not going to happen,” I realised. I remember repeating it to myself to make sure I fully registered the meaning. It hurt. That first time it really hurt. But I picked up the folic acid bottle, and threw it away. And the next time a thought like that slipped through, it was a tiny bit easier. It is the same as denying those negative thoughts I’ve written about before. I learned to address them and then dismiss them, and I am so pleased I did.

As I wrote a few weeks ago, indulging in wishful thinking when all doors were now closed to me would be inaccurate thinking at best. At worst, it would be self-punishment and denial. I have not been perfect at learning not to do it. But gradually I was able to recognise it for what it was, and to turn away from it. This helped me enormously. It was an act of self-compassion. And it became habit. And it allowed me to look forward, to breathe, and to live in the present and think about my future, rather than staying in the past.

 

 

What would have been

Yesterday was Father's Day in New Zealand (and Australia, and maybe a few other places). Later we visited his father, who now lives alone. We had dinner with him and spent the the evening chatting. Of course, it is not a great day for my husband. I think some time ago I mentioned to him that it should be his day. And he reminded me! So I made him bacon and eggs for brunch, and ensured he had a relaxing day. He doesn't say much, but it is obvious that there are some days when what we have lost is hard for him.

Saturday was also the 16th anniversary of the due date of my last ectopic pregnancy. It's an odd thing to think about. Many years ago, I grieved the child who would have been 16 now had the pregnancy lasted. I grieved the parents we would have been. And if I allow myself to imagine the 16-year-old we might have had, I could grieve both the child and our life as parents all over again. But that life would have now been so different from my current reality, that it is hard to imagine.

Oh, sure, if I wanted to imagine it I could. But that's all it would be - imaginings. Painful imaginings. It seems pointless to put myself through that. Which is not to say that I don't do that from time to time. I don't think any of us can help doing that occasionally. But they are simply flickers of thoughts. Anything further would be ... I don't know ... indulgence? Self-flagellation? Still, sometimes I just need to acknowledge what would have been, and to acknowledge the passing of time.

No Kidding Equilibrium Disturbed

I’ve often written about one of the key behaviours that helped me heal, that keeps me at a healthy equilibrium, and allows me to look forward not back. And that is refusing to allow myself to think about the what-ifs, never imagining the details of the child or children we never had, those babies we lost who would (this is always dangerous, but because of this policy I always have to stop to calculate this) by now be 16 and 15 respectively, as this would simply be an exercise of self-flagellation.

I’m watching the TV show Counterpart, which is set in two alternative versions of our world, where versions of each person exist in both, but with subtle differences. <Warning: SPOILER ALERT> The lead character in one world lost a baby to miscarriage, and never had children, and in the other world, the counterpart character had that baby (and its name was the same as that chosen for the miscarried baby in the other world). The childless character discovers this, and understandably has an overwhelming urge to get to know the now grown-up baby.

It is hard to watch this and not wonder about a 16-year-old girl or 15-year-old boy (or vice versa), to wonder what their personalities and interests and talents and flaws would have been. I try not to, but it is hard, and after so many years of resisting this temptation, it is unexpected too.

I’m pretty confident that I’m not going to fully fall prey to the temptations, because – unlike on Counterpart – there is not and will never be a real person to see as the embodiment of my child, but … still …

Shedding desire

A quote from the article I mentioned last week has been repeated in a number of places in our community this last week or so, with many people agreeing that the “ desire to have a child never goes away.”

I’m now 14 years on from knowing definitively that I would never have a child (or I will be in 11 days), and I feel that passage of time; I’m now in my 50s, I’ve had a hysterectomy and I’m in menopause, and whilst I might have regrets that I didn’t have a child, given my age I wouldn’t want to have a child now, even if it were possible.

The problem with the desire to have a child is that in my case it is an unrequited longing which could only lead to disappointment and feelings of loss, inadequacy and pain. Frankly, I’ve had enough longing and disappointment and pain over this issue, and I will not allow anything in my life that is going to prolong this, or to make me feel lesser, simply because I wasn’t able to have children.

So I don’t, I can’t, I won't allow myself to feel the desire to have a child, as I don’t see that it could achieve anything except to make me feel bad, and why would I want that?

There’s a difference between having once wanted something when it was a very reasonable possibility, and still wanting it when you know there is no possibility of it ever happening. To those of you who still feel that desire, maybe it will help to know that as time passes, as acceptance grows, as our bodies change, it is easier to shed it. It is gradually replaced with acceptance, with our desires for more achievable goals, and by quests that will help us feel good, worthy, happy, and free.

#MicroblogMondays: Don't waste our lives

Some of our ALI friends - those who either went on to parent, and those who are still hoping – can’t understand how we have embraced our No Kidding lives. We may well have felt that way when we were still hoping, too. Actually, if we’re honest, we probably felt that way too when we walked through that No Kids door in Infertility’s Waiting Room, and it shut forever behind us.

But we knew there was no choice but to look into the future. After all, if we spend our lives wishing we were parents, we forget to focus on what we do have in our lives, on all the good and wonderful things and people we share our lives with every day. To do otherwise would be to lose far more to infertility than we have already lost. To do anything other than accepting our lives, and embracing them, would be such a waste and a betrayal. A waste of our potential, a waste of our love and humanity, and a betrayal of our grief, of ourselves, and of those very special people who want to spend their lives with us.