It won't happen to me

One of the joys of being young, for most of us, is that we think we are invincible. We are vaguely aware of hard things happening to other people, or in other countries, but we come through unscathed. We cannot imagine these bad things happening to us. We live, happily, in denial. Then, of course, something does happen. For many of us, infertility might be the first indication that bad things can happen to us. To anyone. We were all, no doubt, aware of infertility, or aware of the fact that we might not find the partner we want to have children with. But again, it seemed to be something that happens to others.

Very early this year, I heard or read (I can’t find the reference, I’m sorry) an expert talking about this. Even when bad things happen, our brains automatically reset to “it won’t happen to me.” I guess this is understandable, or we would all live in a state of hyper-vigilance, one that our bodies and brains are not built to endure. But hearing it made me nod, explaining perfectly how infertility seemed so unreal to me, even when I knew time was clicking on. It also explains the need we have to search for a reason why this happened, even when we know there is no reason why. (Which I’ve written about before, here and here.)

Perhaps New Zealand culture accentuates that feeling too. There’s a common phrase here that sums up a large part of our culture. “She’ll be right,” is the refrain, meaning that everything will turn out fine eventually. “No worries” is another version of it. It has both positive and negative connotations, depending on circumstances. So it is no wonder that so many of us don’t predict our own infertility. I’m sure there are other examples in other cultures. In the USA, perhaps, the belief in the great American dream implies that everything is within your reach, and discourages an attitude that maybe things won’t work out for you? I’d be interested to hear whether others have seen cultural beliefs that encourage them to ignore risks. Or am I really stretching things here?

Regardless, this view that bad things won’t happen to us colours many of our societies. Even when we begin to face the fact that infertility might mean we will not get the children we want, we are bombarded by messages from society, from family and friends, that tell us to stop worrying. “She’ll be right!” in fact. We’re told to have a positive attitude, or to keep trying, to try just one more time, or to “just adopt.” IVF is waved as a solution even when statistics don’t back this up. (Read Pamela’s latest piece about messages about IVF here.) We are urged to “never give up.” We’re often not allowed to even contemplate the fact that this IS happening to us, even when it is obvious to ourselves, if not to everyone else.

Anyway, since infertility and loss, I noticed a distinct change in the way I felt about my own vulnerability. Perhaps part of that is just age and experience, but I definitely feel my experience of infertility and pregnancy loss influenced my new feelings about risk. Before then, I used to travel the world on my own (for business) and felt confident and safe. Since then, I have been much more aware of things that could go wrong. I’ve had a diagnosis that have accentuated my feelings of vulnerability, and a niece was born with a genetic condition that has reinforced my view that the world is random (the odds of two healthy people with a rare gene falling in love and having a child, which even then has only a 25% chance of developing this condition is surely random), and so by definition, it is unfair. Since infertility and loss, I’ve felt my mortality much more keenly, and feel very far from invincible. I’ve lost my default setting.

No doubt, our brains’ default setting (that it “won't happen to me”) evolved in humans as part of a survival technique. After all, if you were going out to hunt for food, you had to believe that you would survive the hunt. However, that doesn’t help us now, either in infertility terms or with the onset of the COVID pandemic. Initially, my reaction was “I’ll be fine.” But then as it became more serious, I realised that I was not immune to risk (ie I am not in my healthy 20s or 30s, even though they are not immune either), that I often had more severe respiratory illness than my husband (for example), and that my history of being on the wrong side of the odds (a 1 in 400,000 chance of having a second interstitial ectopic, and 0.3% chance of development TN). As we learned more about COVID, I started to feel more vulnerable too, so felt very comfortable with a lockdown and taking safety precautions, and followed the rules assiduously.

What we are seeing in so many countries around the world is the prevalence of this belief that “it won’t happen to me.” Vulnerability is scary to feel, and it is easier to take the attitude that everything will be okay. I can relate to this. So many of us felt this way about our own fertility. But as we all sadly know, everything will not necessarily turn out as we want. I think knowing too that we don’t always get what we want has made it easier to accept that I am not travelling internationally this year, or – most likely – next year or maybe (gulp!) ever again. I’ve accepted that my life was forced to change at least once before. I can do it again. I may not like it. I may even have to grieve. But I know I’ll get through it.

With COVID – and fertility – the evidence now seems very clear. But too many people are denying the evidence. Some of that is the fault of politicians and messages that have been delivered. But some of it is just our brains resetting to our “it’ll be okay” default. As I once said to a friend about her soon-to-be-ex, when people stick their heads in the sand, all you can see are a$$holes. It made her laugh, which was much needed at the time. It made me feel better about my own vulnerability. Losing this default setting, accepting and not fighting the idea that “maybe it will in fact happen to us,” has actually made me feel more content with life, accept my mortality, and go with the flow a little more than I might have otherwise. It has helped me be a bit more adaptable.

Has your knowledge that anything CAN happen to us helped you in the current circumstances?

Gifts of Infertility Series - #24 – Self-Discovery

It’s been a long time since I wrote a post on this series, not because I’ve struggled to find a topic to write about, but because I wanted to make the most of the last two items in this series, and before now didn't quite feel I could commit to this.

The 24^th in my list of the Gifts of Infertility is really a summation of many of the other items. It is one of the biggest gifts of the heartbreak that came from infertility and loss. It is self-discovery, and hasn’t just helped me deal with infertility, but has spread into all aspects of my life.

Self-discovery and personal growth often come out of difficult times. Sure, there are plenty of people who go through difficult times and come out of it just as selfish as they were before, just as some people come out feeling much more afraid, less trusting, and more self-focused than they were before this. But after a long time, I certainly recognise the benefits of the personal growth that resulted from of those difficult years.

Self-discovery does not mean that we have all the answers. I think that self-discovery means that we are more open to the realities of who we are, and can face up to both our talents and our flaws.

I have a lot of flaws. I think I’m aware of most of them, as I admit them to myself even if I won’t always admit them to others – just in case they haven’t noticed (yes, I live in hope). What I’ve learned though is that it doesn’t help me if I berate myself over them. I’ve learned to try to change them if I can, to face them – as I faced my shyness when I left on a student exchange when I was 17 – as issues that need to be dealt with or lived with, rather than to judge myself because of these issues.

Self-discovery came to me when I allowed myself to grieve. It came to me when I allowed myself to be vulnerable, to really feel emotions, rather than tamp them down. It came to me when I needed to think about what made me happy, after spending a long time of being very sad. It came to me when I needed to look at what I had, because looking at what I didn’t have wasn’t doing me any good. It came to me when I showed self-compassion, and so could face my flaws without terrible guilt and self-hatred and shame. It came to me when I was as kind to myself as I would be to friends and family, when I stopped beating myself up.

Self-discovery came to me when I saw what worked, and was honest about what didn’t. It came to me when I dropped the judgement, and tried to be productive instead. It came to me when I learned more about others, and that helped me learn more about myself. Self-discovery came to me through hard work and tears. It came to me through love and compassion. It came to me from inside myself, and from learning from other wise women who were walking alongside me and helping me.

Self-discovery is a continuing journey, applicable in all aspects of my life. It is a journey that can still bring disappointment in myself, and could easily be halted by shame. But if I don’t allow the shame to take hold again, if I can commit to the honesty required to get past it, self-discovery can also deliver satisfaction and joy and confidence and growth. The best thing about it is that it can banish a lot of fear, and that results in self-imposed burdens tumble from my shoulders. That freedom has allowed me to embrace the future, whatever it might bring. Self-discovery truly is one of the ongoing gifts of infertility.

Gifts of Infertility Series - #11 – Understanding Why

The following is a repost from February 2011. You’ll find the original post and comments here.

"Why? Why me? What did I do to deserve this? Isn't there an answer? Why don't the doctors know? How could this happen? I don't believe this is happening to me? All these questions I have asked. All these questions I know other women have asked, and continue to ask. Today they ask "Why?" Tomorrow they will ask "Why me?" They wonder if it was their fault. They wonder if they did something to deserve this. They just want to know why. And my heart goes out to them.

Years ago, a friend quoted Gertrude Stein to me:

“There is no answer. There will never be an answer. That is the answer.”

In a strange way, this has been a real comfort to me; knowing that there is no "why." It just happens.

I look at women who have children easily, who don't have losses, who have never lost their innocence in pregnancy. They have not been judged to be worthy, just as I have not been judged to be unworthy. I look at women who get pregnant when they don't want to. Why does this happen? Well, just because it does. It doesn't mean that they are better than me. It doesn't mean they are luckier than me. They don't feel luckier. Those who struggle to cope physically, or financially, or emotionally, with a(nother) baby don't always see the baby as a gift, even if that is how we would see one. I look at women with children who neglect them, abuse them, or abandon them, who expose them to violent or abusive partners, who pay more attention to their own needs than those of their child. Clearly, the biological act of having a baby is not evidence of their good character, or their good behaviour. These women are no better than me. A baby is not a reward for good behaviour, however much we might wish it could be. Not having a baby is not a punishment, however much it might feel like that.

It can take a while to reach acceptance of this. Women are very good at blaming ourselves. We search for answers. We expect answers. These days, when so much can be cured, solved, calculated or discovered, we can't understand why some of us can have babies and some of us can't. We get angry, and often - because there is no-one else we can blame - we blame ourselves. Pointlessly. Painfully. Sometimes destructively.

I've lived and travelled around the world. I have seen wonderful people in difficult circumstances. I have seen awful people with family they don't value, with riches they don't appreciate or do anything good with. I have seen beloved, kind, good friends die young, I've seen those who have been tortured, and I've seen the selfish and downright evil live till they are very old. None of this is right or can be justified. None of this happens for a reason. None of this is because you were judged to be deserving or not. None of this is because they were or were not being rewarded. It just is.

For me, understanding that there is no justice in the world is as much understanding as I can ever expect to have. There is no reason why. And that knowledge frees me from the guilt. It means that I don't question myself every time I hear of a case of child abuse or neglect, or unwanted pregnancy. It means I can love myself and have compassion for myself when I feel sad. It means I can have compassion for other people too, regardless of their situation.

I just hope others can get here too."

Three years later,  I still feel like this. I like being in this place. It helps me understand, not just infertility, but the rest of the world too. It brings me peace.  And that is a true gift.

Why?

Why?  Why me?  What did I do to deserve this?  Isn't there an answer?  Why don't the doctors know?  How could this happen?  I don't believe this is happening to me?  All these questions I have asked.  All these questions I know other women have asked, and continue to ask, today they ask "Why?"  Tomorrow they will ask "Why me?"  And they wonder if it was their fault.  They wonder if they did something to deserve this.  They just want to know why.  And my heart goes out to them. 

Years ago, a friend quoted Gertrude Stein to me.  “There is no answer.  There will never be an answer.  That is the answer.”  In a strange way, this has been a real comfort to me.  Knowing that there is no "why."  It just happens.

I look at women who have children easily, who don't have losses, who have never lost their innocence in pregnancy.  They have not been judged to be worthy, just as I have not been judged to be unworthy.  I look at women who get pregnant when they don't want to.  Why does this happen?  Well, just because it does.  It doesn't mean that they are better than me.  It doesn't mean they are luckier than me.  They don't feel luckier.  Those who struggle to cope physically, or financially, or emotionally, with a(nother) baby don't see the baby as a gift, even if that is how we would see one.  I look at women with children who neglect them, abuse them, or abandon them, who expose them to violent or abusive partners, who pay more attention to their own needs than those of their child.  Clearly, the biological act of having a baby is not evidence of their good character, or their good behaviour.  These women are no better than me.  A baby is not a reward for good behaviour, however much we might wish it is.  Not having a baby is not a punishment, however much it might feel like that.

It can take a while to reach acceptance of this.  Women are very good at blaming ourselves.  We search for answers.  We expect answers.  These days, when so much can be cured, solved, calculated or discovered, we can't understand why some of us can have babies and some of us can't.  We get angry, and often - because there is no-one else we can blame - we blame ourselves.  Pointlessly.  Painfully.  Sometimes destructively.

I've lived and travelled around the world.  I have seen wonderful people in difficult circumstances.  I have seen awful people with family they don't value, with riches they don't appreciate or do anything good with.  I have seen beloved, kind, good friends die young, I've seen those who have been tortured, and I've seen the selfish and evil live till they are very old.  None of this is justified or right.  None of this happens for a reason.  None of this is because you were judged to be deserving or not.  None of this is because they were or were not being rewarded.  It just is.

For me, understanding that there is no justice in the world is as much understanding as I can ever expect to have.  There is no reason why.  And that frees me from the guilt.  It means that I can find peace.  It means that I don't question myself every time I hear of a case of child abuse or neglect, or unwanted pregnancy.  It means I can love myself and have compassion for myself when I feel sad.  It means I can have compassion for other women too, regardless of their situation.  I like being in this place.

I just hope that others can get here too.