When we're the only ones to remember

Oops. I forgot Microblog Mondays. It was a public holiday yesterday, and we'd delayed some Sunday things till yesterday, so the whole day had a very Sunday vibe. That's my excuse, and I'm going to repeat this on A Separate Life today too! Fortunately, it is still Monday in Mel-of-Microblog-Monday-land, and so I can post on Tuesdays here and get away with it.

We celebrated a wedding anniversary (not a big one) on Friday. My mother and D's mother used to remember, but they're both gone now, so it was only the two of us who remembered. If I had kids, they might have remembered. I always remembered my parents anniversary, and in later years we remembered my in-laws' anniversary too - they all made it to 50 years! My bridesmaid (younger sister) and the best man never remember. Sigh. Don't they have Google Calendar? lol Anyway, as it has been our entire married life, we celebrated together, and we went out for a lovely meal at a favourite, fancy restaurant. But when I thought about it, it felt just a little lonely, you know? And I wasn't in the mood to seek attention by posting on social media. (And this post isn't intended to do that either.) Yes, I love that we celebrate our love and our life together. But sometimes, I think it would be nice if someone else noticed. Not having kids makes it just that little bit lonelier.

However, I know how lucky I am to have D in my life. And to have a partner who likes going out and dressing up a bit (okay, he doesn't really like that but he does it!) and ordering champagne at the very cool bar at the restaurant. I'm not complaining about that!

Support Networks (again)

As you know, I posted about this last week, particularly but not only in relation to the pandemic, and was grateful for everyone’s comments. I was pleased to see that there was nothing major I had forgotten about, though I didn’t have everything everyone suggested. We’ve been wearing masks since August, and our government made a list of helpful things to have at home to be prepared, and there was a lot of similarity between their list, and your suggestions! Thanks!

Elaine mentioned joining a choir, to try and extend her own support network. I’m going to look for another bookclub, I think, and maybe a photography group. I’ve been talking about it for ages. I need to just do it!

The post itself, and all your responses, made me realise too that I do have an extra support network – my readers and fellow bloggers online. I may not be able to pop over and help you when you’re sick, or vice versa, but we are all definitely here for each other, and I’m very grateful for that.

I need a bigger a support network

Yesterday, it was announced that Omicron is now spreading within New Zealand. We were doing such a good job of keeping Delta away. Since everything opened up (particularly for those with vaccine passes) before Christmas, case numbers have kept low, with an R value under 1. But now Omicron* is here, and everything will change. As I saw a headline this morning, New Zealanders are in for a major culture shock!

In the announcement, the Prime Minister yesterday suggested people prepare for being isolated at home, and suggested we find “buddies” who might be able to go shopping for us. It wasn’t long ago (just over a year) that we were the ones going shopping for my father-in-law, so it would require a change of focus to think of others doing things for us. We are reasonably well stocked except for perishables (I’ve written on A Separate Life about my pantry hoarding instincts), but it got me thinking. Who would be our buddies?

Initially, I thought (rather melodramatically), “we have nobody!” And I felt very alone. My friends with grown kids in the city would probably call on them, or one of their many friends they made through their kids. Their priority would be their kids, their work, and not some lonely old couple out in the suburbs. (I may be doing them a disservice, but it is how I felt.) Of course, we don’t have grown (or any) children, and neither of us have relatives in the city we could call on. Closer friends live outside the city now, so wouldn’t be able to pick up some milk on the way home. Bamberlamb’s post this week about isolating when you don’t have family also highlights the issues we face these days if we are close contacts or COVID positive, and have to stay at home for an extended period of time. As she notes, we are both lucky to have someone to isolate with. Many don’t.

Then I got thinking. I guess we would probably call on a friend who lives in the next suburb, or on one of our neighbours (and we would help them too), or my husband’s golf buddies. That’s a reasonable number of people who live relatively close, and it would be highly unlikely that we would all be isolating at the same time. Now though, as I look at our network, I know that we are not alone. And it has reminded me to reach out to some friends who are on their own, and might need help as well as being able to give it.

Support networks are there, if informally. But thinking about this has certainly reminded me of my intentions to socialise more this year, with the hope of having a wider group of friends in this community. It's important for me in a way it isn't so important for those who are surrounded by their children or other relatives. It won't happen unless I make the effort. And COVID-19 is making the point that it isn't something I can put off until I am older. It's important now!

 

* Yes, I hear your sighing and eye-rolling. I'm sorry!

Turning trauma into art

"Writing about trauma is more than simply documenting experience—it's about illuminating life on earth. It's about transforming tragedy into art, and hoping that somehow that piece of art may help someone else who's gone through something unbearable and who doesn't yet see that there truly is a light at the end of the dark tunnel."

— Tracy Strauss, Poets and Writers Magazine, Sept/Oct 13

I found this quote some years ago and have been meaning to show it here. Not that I would describe this blog as “art!” But the idea of writing about our traumas, about our losses, and about our recovery definitely applies to this blog, and to the blogs of so many of my readers too. I love that it recognises that writing about our own traumas helps others feel less alone, that they can read our stories and see themselves in it, that they don’t feel quite so isolated.

I love too that it recognises that writing about traumas can provide hope that maybe things will improve. After all, when we find our lives are going to be spent without children, it is not a static situation where life as we had planned it stops. Where there is initially a vacuum because our lives are not filled with the children or grandchildren we had hoped for, life and light and joy will fill it. In particular, hope fills that vacuum, although it is directed somewhere new. There is, as the quote above mentions, light at the end of the tunnel, and we all find solidarity and friendship and joy through the third, feared and neglected door of Infertility’s Waiting Room.

I know all of us who blog in our No Kidding world talk about this – the pleasure of discovering that life goes on, and is good and rich and full. I apologise to those who find it repetitious. But I do think it’s worth repeating for anyone new who might find this blog. And it's worth reminding those of us who have been here for a while too, and may have the occasional lapse. It gets better. I'm not kidding.

Monday miscellany: No Kidding version

There are lots of articles/blogs/columns about the Pope's comment that people who have pets instead of children are selfish. I'm not going to go into detail here as others have responded to this far more eloquently than I could. There was a particularly good response here, and I have read others too. Lots of comments about the hypocrisy of a church that requires its priests and nuns to remain celibate and childless, whilst berating those without children. I am just frustrated that such a view continues to be repeated - it is at least the second time he has made the "selfish" comment about people without children.

I was at a gathering on New Year's Day. Meeting a new couple, and along with the hosts, we chatted about all sorts of interesting things. It wasn't until another couple joined us - who knew the first couple through school kids - that the question of children came up. The guy asked it, not to my surprise. I often find that men ask this question. Perhaps they think they're trying to bring the women into the conversation (though my feminist sensibilities bristle at this idea), or perhaps his well of conversational topics was running dry (though he didn't seem to be someone who would ever be lost for words). Anyway, I digress. What was interesting, I thought, was the response of his wife, who turned to me and said that she felt she was moving into a different stage of life, as her children are about to leave home. The implication was that she could relate to me more, and she was being kind to include me in that, even though the two states (empty nest and childless) are very different (as I have written before). I appreciated her sensitivity.

Finally, another snippet of a conversation with my BIL. He was talking about his adult daughter (from his first wife), who apparently has decided to "stop contraception and see what happens." I said that I wished her luck, but that at her age (late 30s), "seeing what happens" is not always the wisest idea and that he should ensure she knows that if she has been actively trying for six months without conception, it might be worth getting checked out. "I'm sure that won't be necessary," he said. "Look at (my sister) and I. We did that, and everything worked out." "Yes," I said. "And so did (DH) and I. It's not always that simple." I was so frustrated. He could say that to me, of all people! But more importantly, I didn't want his daughter to delay seeking help out of a false sense of security. So I gave him some info - statistics related to age, related to infertility in the wider population, etc. His daughter was visiting a day or two later. I wonder if he broached the topic. But I did what I could. I'm pleased about that. For her sake, I tried.