"That Day" Again

This Sunday, on The Day That Shall Not Be Named, will be the first time when both my husband and I are motherless. Whilst I am conscious he may have some emotions about that (though I've asked him, and he says he doesn't!), I also feel a degree of freedom. We also don’t celebrate the day in any form – not as a rebellion, or in an effort to reclaim it. I know some people do it successfully, but I have no wish to do so. It wouldn’t work for me. So perhaps for the first time, the day has no meaning for me.

Instead of baking a cake and visiting the in-laws, or just hibernating away from the world, this year I feel a liberation. The day now means nothing to me. I’ve seen ads (commercials) for it everywhere. A jeweller even tried to encourage people to buy gifts for “work mums” which has provoked a lot of conversation, and made me cringe. Even though I’ve played that role myself, I prefer to be called a “mentor” which is more respectful, and less sexist. After all, have you ever heard anyone talk about a “work dad.” Shudder! It gives out very creepy vibes. Anyway, I digress.

As I’ve said before about various holidays, it is only one day. Though I’ve actually disproved that myself here, where I’ve noted that if you have international friends, it lasts two days, and then throw in the UK’s day in March, and so we have three days to tolerate! And then there’s the day after when people brag about what their children did for them, so add on another day. Okay, so it is potentially four days!

But what I mean by this is that it passes, and we all forget about it. If we can stay away from social media on the day and the day after, then it can pass largely without notice. And by the Tuesday afterwards, everyone has forgotten it even happened.

So often, it is the anticipation that is hardest. I know that feeling of dread – worrying about how I will cope with the day, or what people will say to me – that this day can invoke. What I also know now though is that, after all these years, that feeling of dread fades. And I hope that gives those of you who are struggling some comfort.

It has power if we give it power. Sure, in the first few years it is hard not to succumb to the power of the day. But as time passes, it is easier to stand up straight and say, “nope, I’m not giving this day power over me.” It is easier to make our own plans to either avoid difficult situations, or to treat ourselves before or afterwards. It is easier to dismiss it as irrelevant to our lives. The guilt for not caring goes too. And you know what rushes in? A sense of relief, and freedom.

So I hope you have a freedom-filled weekend. I know I for one will be focused on other things. Packing, for one. But I will be thinking of you all too. And wrapping you up in a big hug, full of love.

What prompts personal growth?

A blogger* recently said that in not having children, she had lost the chance to do things better, or differently, or the way that might have worked with us way back when. I can understand that. We all want to take lessons from what happened to us, and make things better. But there’s a danger in this. I’ve seen someone raise their by deliberately doing the opposite of that which her mother did. They didn’t seem to realise that they weren’t actually choosing to do this freely, but were taking a kneejerk reaction out of resentment. But in trying to rectify the “wrongs” done to them, the best interests of the children were sometimes lost.

The aforementioned blogger also said that she felt she was missing out on the mental thought and maturation involved in this process of assessing her upbringing and then raising children. I can definitely see her point. It seems that, when parenting, it might happen organically, as and when specific childhood stages were reached. But it could also occur at times of crisis, with many competing demands for time and energy, or when we found it least convenient. We just never know. So I don't think it would inherently be an easy or natural process to go through when parenting.

Of course, I don’t think you need to be a parent to be able to think about and deal with the issues of our childhood. Because, in my experience at least, I see a lot of people who don't grow, who never deal with their past or their issues, and who even hide from it. Perhaps without even realising that. And I know (from discussions in the comments) that the original blogger knows this too.

Personally, the fact that I couldn’t have children, and the need to process the grief of that, meant I had to really think about my own values, then to reevaluate my life, and find meaning in other ways. It has meant that I've thought about a whole raft of issues and ideas about myself (including how I would have parented) that my friends who are parents just haven't (or hadn’t at the time) necessarily had to do. They might have had a life that has worked seamlessly for them so they don’t question it, they might not have had the time or energy to search their hearts and minds, they might have been too afraid to confront feelings of emptiness or confusion, or they simply lacked self-awareness, never really knowing why they were bitter or angry or sad, or knowing in fact that they were actually bitter or angry or sad.

The thing about a situation that changes our lives, or changes the way we expected to live our lives, is that we can’t avoid confronting it. But still, the extent to which we do will depend on many of the issues above – self-awareness, inclination, time or energy, and courage. It doesn’t happen automatically to parents, and it doesn’t happen automatically to those of us who can’t be parents. We all have catalysts - whether it is having children, or NOT having children. The key is not to denigrate our own catalyst. Absence can be a catalyst to growth, just as presence can be.

Ultimately, I think if we're going to grow, we're likely to find a way to do that regardless of whether or not we have children. And I suspect, simply by posing these thoughts, the original blogger is way ahead of many in this regard.

*  This is by no means a criticism of the blogger's thoughts - I completely understand where they are coming from. It's more an extension of her thoughts, into my situation.

Rebuilding relationships

I recently read a post from another blogger that reminded me again that there are always two perspectives. A relatively new mother after infertility had got together with two friends. She had to leave early, but later realised that she hadn’t been asked about her kids and her life (or not as much as she wanted) by her two friends. She felt abandoned, ignored, and was personally offended.

I am sure we can all point to times when we felt that we had been abandoned and ignored offended because we didn’t have children. However, what the aforementioned blogger made me realise was that we are not the only ones who might feel like that. They may have withdrawn from us because they were busy, or because it was easier to associate with others who had children and shared so much, or even because they didn't want to hurt us by having their children around us. Misunderstandings, though, still lead to hurt. It may not all be one-sided, and it may not be equally shared. We may withdraw to protect ourselves, feeling alone and abandoned, and that in turn can hurt the person we need protection from. But they won't necessarily understand that.Then they are hurt too. Being able to step back - perhaps after time has passed, or if an olive branch has been extended - and think about how the change in friendship affected us both can really help us with forgiveness. Forgiveness for their actions, and for our own.

This then can provide an opening for conversation, for healing wounds, and for rebuilding friendships. Or maybe, at the very least, it can just make us more content with the relationship as it has evolved. We can learn to appreciate each other anew, ignoring the hurts of the past. That's what I'm trying to do now. It's not easy, as I am finding. You probably know that too. But I hope it will bring us both some pleasure, and some peace.

I'll never say never ...

There’s a phrase that is used, after loss, or grief, or infertility, that causes me to cringe. I’ve noted before that others use it to silence us, and ease their feelings of awkwardness. Yes, it is “getting over it.” But many of us continue to use it, using the instances where grief returns, or we feel isolated or hurt by comments years afterwards, to justify saying that they will “never get over it.” Personally, although I understand it (and I'm not criticising anyone who chooses to use it), I am not comfortable saying it and will, I promise, avoid it at all costs.

In the throes of loss or in the depths of infertility, or when facing that ultimatum that our quest for children is over, our feelings are intense, and getting over it seems impossible. I’ve seen many men and women object to the idea that they will “get over it,” because it seems as if that minimises their grief, and the extent of their loss. They feel, in the moment, they will never get over it.

But likewise, I imagine how it must seem to them in that moment, to hear someone else – five years or twenty years on – agree that “you will never get over it.” By saying this, I worry that we are telling those people, already in almost unbearable grief, that they will feel these intense emotions for the rest of their life, that they will feel this loss forever. What they thought was their worst nightmare will be, we are telling them, their worst nightmare. I don’t want to do that, because not only does it add to their grief, it is just not true.We adjust, we heal, we blossom. We don't live in a nightmare.

So ultimately I don’t think that it is helpful to say we never get over it. It needs to be qualified. What do we mean? That at times, it will hurt even many years later? Isn’t that different to saying we’ll never get over it? It may not feel that way to you. But for me it is. We’ll never go back to where we were before this all began, but that’s different to never getting over it.

So, given that I called my blog No Kidding, I feel a responsibility to be honest! Part of that honesty is admitting that pain over our losses – at some level, and often when we least expect it – makes itself known to us time and again. I’m not denying that, by any means. And I know that this is what most people mean when they say “I will never get over it.”

But I also feel a responsibility to be honest about the fact that we get better. We heal. We still have the scars, still feel the after effects of an injury, but still be healed. We can be changed forever, but still be healed. In healing, we accept these changes. In healing, we retake our place in the world. In healing, we refind joy.

So for me, it is simply this balance that I am confident comes to all of us in the end, if and when we are ready. The balance between the past and the future, between pain and joy..

I think balance is admitting that we have changed, and that our changed circumstances will affect us every day until we die. It is admitting and recognising the pain when it visits, neither ignoring nor exaggerating it.

But balance also ensures that we are able to accept our new circumstances, and not be ruled by grief. It is in finding joy, choosing not to dwell in sadness, turning towards optimism and happiness,. It is celebrating when the pain leaves us as well, celebrating all the gifts of our life. It means embracing happiness, and sadness, and knowing it all passes, and knowing that we will be okay.

So you’ll never hear me say that I will never get over it.

Freedom from compulsory holidays*

I am sitting at my computer listening to the radio, where you'll find me most afternoons. They talked about the traffic building, as people try to escape the cities for Easter. It is particularly busy this year, because Easter is in the middle of the school holidays, and there is also a public holiday (ANZAC Day) next Thursday, which means that people can get ten days holiday but only need to take three days off work. (Easter is Friday-Monday off here, with some companies/institutions taking Tuesday off as well. What is the case in your country?)

Anyway, back to the news report of the crush on the motorways heading to seaside baches*^ or other holiday destinations. A feeling of peace came over me. We don't work in education, and we have no children, so we have never been tied to taking time off during the school holidays or public holidays. It's always given me a sense of freedom. This weekend, as autumn takes a tighter hold, we get to relax, hunker down, drink some good wine at home and eat hot cross buns (though not together - sacre bleu!), binge watch some TV, and start to get organised for our own trip next month. We get to choose the timing of our holidays, and we specifically** avoid crowded times. We get cheaper airfares, or smoother road trips. Destinations are pleasantly calm when we visit them. We take real pleasure in this. I mean, why not enjoy the gifts of infertility? It's not as if we have a choice! So we make the most of it. I hope you can do this too.



* I'm using holidays in the UK/NZ sense of the word, meaning vacations.
*^ A "bach" in New Zealand is a small holiday home.
** Well, except when we spent a month in Rome in July. I wouldn't recommend doing that!