By Kathleen Guthrie Woods
It’s impossible to put on mascara when you can’t stop crying.
I learned this little truism the day after we put our sweet 14-year-old dog to sleep. I’d spent the day intermittently sobbing and whimpering—set off by her empty bowl, her favorite spot in my office, now vacant, and tiny reminders of my everyday companion. I had pushed off most work-related tasks, but still had to pull myself together for an evening event I needed to attend. With a lot of deep breathing, as well as promises to myself that I could continue crying my eyes out later, I managed to make myself presentable.
I’m not new to devastating losses. Almost daily, I still think of the best friend who died tragically when she was just 20, my beloved grandmother and “hot date” for movies who passed in 1993, and my father-in-law who left us before he could be an honored guest at our wedding. But the outpouring of emotions I experienced after losing Scout was a new breed of grief. Guilt, gratitude, longing, regret, relief, loneliness, heartache. At times it consumed me, as, I think, it should. And that got me thinking….
As a woman who is childfree by circumstances, I have never fully grieved the loss of my dream of motherhood. For 25 years or so, I’ve been in this crazy dance between longing and hoping, praying and wishing, denial, regret, jealousy, despair, having faith and losing faith. I used to beg God for a neon sign—seriously—a message so clear that said either “You will have children, so stick it out!” or “You aren’t going to have children. Get on with your life!” And the years went by. And the years went by. And here I am. I am childfree by circumstance (don’t you dare accuse me of making a “choice”), and I describe myself as “mostly at peace” with my status. But there are days when I still think “What if….”
I won’t trivialize the pain of our sisters who are childfree by infertility. I’ve held too many friends and sobbed with them over miscarriages, failed IVF treatments, and the loss of their dreams, and I know too well that their paths are filled with heartbreak. But because LWB is a place where we can safely share our deepest hurts, please allow me to say that there are times when I’ve envied their ability to grieve. My friends had defining moments when they could let it all out, when they could ask for support, when support was offered even when it was not asked for. Think of my journey like the quiet drip-drip of a faucet; it’s imperceptible, so no one calls in the plumber, but over time it causes the same amount of catastrophic damage as a flood. I have never had a moment of finality, never experienced that intense period of grief, and on some very deep and possibly damaged level, I wish I could.
Selfish? Perhaps. But hear me out. I know that grieving is necessary. The sobbing period winds down, you put your experiences into perspective, and then you move on. For I so would like to be able to move on. I want to embrace this path I’ve been given and find new purpose in my life. I’d like to feel that the wanderings of my childbearing years were not just wasted time. And I fear that, if I skip past the crucial grieving phase, I’ll never get to the phase of accepting and, ultimately, to that day when I can feel content with my circumstances.
Kathleen – what a powerful post this is. I’m infertile, barren – whatever you choose to call it. It means a sharp full stop to a long held dream and a sudden start to the grieving process, but if only it were as straightforward as that.
Some days I can talk dispassionately about being infertile – hey it’s just the hand I’ve been dealt – other days I’m bereft, I’m less than woman, I’m a useless waste of space.
I lost count of the times I asked a god for guidance – I now speak to a goddess. I have found comfort in speaking to a goddess rather than a god who I don’t think could relate to this crappy circumstance I find myself in.
I’m passed the sobbing period and into the ‘so what now?’ period. That’s not to say I don’t still cry – I do, but I can at least wear a mask publicly that says I’m ok,
I’m hoping acceptance is on the horizon, but I don’t know until I find that thing to replace the children I so badly wanted, acceptance feels a long way off.
Wow, Sarah, you articulate so many things I’ve felt. Love the idea of talking with a goddess. And I think some of this is just taking one day at a time and doing the best we can in the moment. I wish you … well, I hope today is a good day for you. Thank you for sharing your story!
Thank you for your beautiful post. I have been able to simply state that “I cannot have children” to close friends without tears nowadays. I have to accept that while the fertility doctors thought the probability wasn’t zero, they also said I really should have gotten pregnant given the length of time trying to conceive and we did see one problem thought tests that was an issue. The probability comment though left me thinking “well what if that slim chance is possible?” I still think that sometimes now but I have found it healthier for me to simply say “I can’t have children” instead of living in that “what if.” The costs and physical trials of a slim chance of success of a ivf are not for me. Foster care is a long process and adoption is costly. Emotionally I do not think I can handle either. But I have work that is fulfilling, great friends, and children of friends that can benefit from another positive adult in their lives. I imagine I will never fully get over infertility but I am seeing that being childless does open possibilities. I have more time and money to take care of myself and my dog and cat.
Each day I work to make a little more progress on my grieving and it does slowly add up. Yesterday I walked by a baby section at a big store. Usually this leads to sadness but this week I focued on the prices: the costs of chairs and strollers is high! I didnt grieve this time. I stopped and thought about how thankful I was that I didn’t have to spend money for those items. It is progress for me. Gratitude for some parts of the child free life are growing and the pain is lessening.
I hear you Amanda, that’s one way I help myself get over it, the realization that financially a family would be hard on us. Not to say if I could I would choose not to because of money. But we can’t; so one positive is we are more financially secure!
Kathleen, I am so sorry you lost your beloved Scout. When I lost my first dachshund, I thought I would never get over it. The sadness was so overwhelming that I even quit a morning prayer routine because my little companion was missing. (He died in the month of January and my room seemed so cold without the heat of his little body next to me.) I thought I knew the stages of grieving after losing my parents, but you are so spot on in saying that this is a different kind of grief. I hope you feel better one day.
Sue Monk Kidd wrote a fascinating book called Dance of the Dissident Daughter which explores how ancient goddess worship eventually became overwhelmed by patriarchal religions. After her research, Sue turned to the divine feminine image of God for prayer and comfort.
I read the book last year and discussed it with my spiritual director. I, too, gained a new appreciation for the feminine divine, called Wisdom in Holy Scripture. I also gained more respect for Mary, the mother of Jesus. She raised a son who stood up against the patriarchal religious authorities of his day and had deep respect for feminine power. For example, he did not address Mary as “Mother” in the gospel of John. Instead, he called her “Woman” because she was much more than a vessel to carry human life into the world. I now proudly call myself “woman” as a reminder of all that is sacred in my humanity regardless of whether or not I am a mother.
Thank you, Kathleen and Sarah, for reminding us of the goddess. It seems we have to go a long time without mascara before we can accept the beauty and power of our precious feminine humanity.
I don’t know if there is ever a point where grief completely goes away. But
I think that is normal. What struck me were your comments about those who have passed and how you think about them still. Same here. My pets, family, friends – and the older you get…I realize it is a part of life. But LWB and Jody Day’s writings on grief and grieving the loss of someone who was technically never there have helped. And that helps a great deal when it comes to living and participating on the periphery of all things associated with children and families.
This week my nephews graduated from the eighth grade. They attended a catholic school so they have been there since kindergarten and I get it is not like my junior high graduation. But sitting in the church, it made me a little sad- enough to bite my lip for a moment or two. But then it passed.
The one thing that bothers me a great deal about this school parish though is how closed and cliquish it is. I have helped with their schooling with some volunteering, but if you aren’t a member of the school “family”, you tend to get brushed aside. (And I know I am not alone in this because I have heard similar complaints from other parish members who attend, but do not have children in the school, so it isn’t just due to the fact that I am childless.). So there was a fair amount of reference to family throughout the service and the sacrifices the parents have made and to be fair that is true. When the kids got their diplomas, everyone was asked to hold their applause until the end, which was fine. THEN they had a ceremony for the parents whose last child was graduating from the school. Applause for each couple that walked up and got a rose AND when they walked back down. This took longer than the passing out of the diplomas! (My mom said its to acknowledge the amount of money they have poured into the school. I am not so kind in my assessment.)
At the reception afterwards, I was sitting with my nephews and their other aunt and she asked them what they thought about the rose ceremony – they were irked. One mentioned that “it was supposed to be about us! Not the parents!” Heh. I was so glad she brought it up. But even though it was eye rolling, there is a small jealous part of me that is sad because that is an acknowledgement I will never have.
So another round of pictures will make it on FB and oohing and aahing. Sigh. But I have just found that it is easier to deal with it in my own way – sometimes being the childless auntie has its advantages. I love music and have played an instrument of one kind or another for nearly 40 years. It is something I always wanted to pass on to my own child. Since that is not in the cards, I have done what I can to encourage it with my nephews and niece. It is paying off – one nephew in particular has really taken to it. He loves his guitar that I introduced him several years ago, but they are both at the age now where music becomes more important. So for their graduation, instead of money in the money card, I enclosed a ticket to their first rock concert. And once they figured out it was AC/ DC, the look on their faces was beautiful – complete surprise. The one who plays guitar is the quieter of the two, but he looked at me and stuttered out “I-I really like this.” Yes, honey, I know and I am so glad I will be able to share with you my passion. You have no idea how important that is to me.
Oh I am so very sorry to hear about Scout. My sympathies.
Grieving is something I’m working on. The part that is the hardest for me is trying to figure out how to grieve adoption loss. Everyone around me is quick to point out that they weren’t “my” children – I didn’t suffer a miscarriage or stillbirth. So apparently I shouldn’t be sad or upset. That somehow it wasn’t a “real” loss, even though it was real to me. I am unable to grieve publicly about it due to this conundrum. Which then makes the entire process harder, longer, and drawn out. I try convincing myself that everyone is right, I shouldn’t be upset, but that is denying my true feelings and making things worse, I’m realizing. Oh how I wish there was a simple way to grieve! Thanks for this post!
I’m so very sorry to hear about Scout. My sympathies.
Grieving is something I’m working on. The part that is the hardest for me is trying to figure out how to grieve adoption loss. Everyone around me is quick to point out that they weren’t “my” children – I didn’t suffer a miscarriage or stillbirth. So apparently I shouldn’t be sad or upset. That somehow it wasn’t a “real” loss, even though it was real to me. I am unable to grieve publicly about this due to this conundrum. I try to convince myself that what others are saying is true – it isn’t something worth grieving or should be grieved. However, this is denying my true feelings and then makes the grieving process even harder and more drawn out. It is hard to allow myself to grieve, but I’m trying. Grief is a weird thing! Thank you for this post!
Yes.
How to grieve the never-was…. How to mourn time lost to lack of choice…
I’m in that boat, learning the way the water moves…
Kathleen, I thought this was a really good post that made me think. I’ve grieved in other ways, and there were very specific dates when that happened, and I agree with you – that I think that makes it easier. Or at least it gives us a time to focus on that loss.
When I was volunteering on a pregnancy loss website, I know that a lot of women got comfort from the idea of writing a letter to their lost babies, or going through a little ceremony to say some words and release a balloon to say good-bye. I don’t think you need to have been physically pregnant to do something similar. Maybe it would give you a focus, and help you say good-bye to that lost dream, to those children you (and all of us here) never had?
(Hmmm – I was sure I responded to this a day or two ago. Obviously not.)
I certainly had specific periods when I grieved – my pregnancy losses, and when I had a test that proved to me I’d never have children – and as you’ve pointed out, maybe that was easier. Although it was terribly painful, it gave me a time and date to grieve and then to begin to heal.
In the years when I counselled on a pregnancy loss website, there were some things that people did that helped them grieve and begin to move on. (Not “get over it” – no, simply begin to move into the next stage of their lives.) Some women had their own little ceremony to mark the lives of those children they’d lost – maybe writing some poetry, lighting a candle, or releasing a balloon. Others wrote letters to the children they never had. I liked this idea though never actually did it (I think I was scared to – it would be painful but probably cathartic too) – but have always kept it in mind, thinking that maybe one day I will. I think it might establish a grieving point for you, and allow you to recognise that you have suffered a loss, a real loss, the loss of a future you had planned, the loss of children you had dreamed of, the loss of a role that you never got to play.
This is a very powerful post indeed – i am infertile – I spent 17 years believing i was suffering sub fertility and that science or a a miracle would mean that one day I would be fertile. I am not – I identify so much with what you have suffered. I suffered 4 IVF cycles in silence and so never grieved any of them. I had a miracle natural pregnancy at 40 and a miscarrieage at 6 weeks – one or two close friends offered a very temporary outpouring but the grief didn’t seem to release me because I was still full of optimism – more so than before. We then had a further 2 IVF cyles with frozen embyos – still negative. the outcome of these were devastating – my husband and I fell into a deep depresion and almost fell out of love – we were talking divorce. We ended our journey (which I still struggle with), last year, I was 46 when our 7th IFV with a donor egg ended in an ectopic pregnancy – I grieved big time, however I still feel lost and I have not moved on – I’m torn by the thought that I could (if I had a willing husband), go for IVF with a donor until I am 48 years. I have not called the clinic back from a year ago – I have given up – walked away, the odds too low, the risk of ectopic too high – the reality that there must be other things wrong with me for these outcomes. I still cannot believe it hasn’t worked out after praying, hoping waiting, ……… I still dream at night that I am pregnant and everything worked out – we are buying paint for the nursury. I wonder how I will feel when I pass my 48th birthday in November this year. It scares me – I hope I don’t blame my husband – i promised him so many times this was it. If it was going to work it would have worked by now. I hang onto this and the thought that any more treatment would surely destroy us completely. I havn’t found that anyone in our socienty – friends, colleagues or family acknowledge any kind of grief terribly well. And least of all our ability to have children – its not seen as a loss. I’ve exhausted myself trying to explain to even insightful friends – they don’t get it and never will. I’m finding it easier now to stop trying to explain how sad it is everyday to come to work and see pregnant people – I instead am learning to understand my own grief – to acknolwedge that it should have been but it simply isn’t and to allow the sadness in – to picture my children that might have walked the earth but instead walk a path locked inside of me. They are real, I miss them and I miss the things we would have done together – and then i let the thoughts drift away and I come back to now and today and what will I do for me and for my husband that will put a smile on our faces and I think we are here – we are in a world full of darkness and light and I want to spend more of my time in the light but we must not dismiss the darkness. I love this quote “life is not about waiting for the sun to come out” – its about “learning to dance in the rain”. I am truly sorry for your loss of Scout and hope that you feel less alone knowing the “we” here understand the pain of this loss and the loss of the children that you have not had the opportunity to love.
Jane – I don’t know what to say. What a heart achingly touching post. I’m glad you found this site and you can share your story knowing that you’ll never use up people’s compassion and empathy here.
I understand the depths of the grief. I never did IVF, but my miscarriage haunts me. I can sometimes picture junior, but I’ll always wonder what they would’ve achieved…I hope you and your husband are able to learn to dance in the rain.
Sarah – thank you so much for your response – I’m sat at my desk reading your post and my own again and the tears are free flowing. not a busy office today, no-one has noticed…… thank you for your understanding, I tell myself I don’t need it because the people around me can’t see it. I have needed it for many years – I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Jane, I am so sorry for your losses. Thank you for so candidly expressing what so many of us on this site have experienced. I was especially struck by ” I’ve exhausted myself trying to explain to even insightful friends – they don’t get it and never will.” I completely understand that, I’ve been there. So much of our grieving is done silently, privately. But here…. I don’t know how long you’ve been around LWB, but you’ll find similar stories here from women who can finish your sentences, who will surround you with their support and encouragement and deep understanding. I hope you’ll continue to explore this site, reach out to others, and accept what they have to offer (see Sarah above). There will be better days, and I hope you start to feel that even a little bit today.
Like Jane, I sit here in my office reading these posts with tears bursting out of my eyes. I haven’t been on this site in a while, but stumbling upon Kathleen’s post about why she can’t grieve has been so emotional for me this afternoon. That is exactly where I am! I identify with so much of what you all have shared here, even though our stories are different. I have been in such a difficult place with my childlessness by circumstance. I’ve been hopeful, but now I am just sick of being hopeful. I want to let go, but still think it is possible. I want to draw a line to move on, but I just don’t know how or when. I thought my line would be age 40, now that I am just days away from 40, I find myself thinking about the possibilities after 40, like Savannah Guthrie and the people we see in Hollywood. Here’s hope again, but there is a part of me that wishes all of this turmoil could go away on my 40th birthday–the thoughts, the hurt, the what ifs. I want to be free to get past the sadness, especially the secret sadness because it is such a lonely place. I don’t want this feeling to continue–it feels all consuming. When I am trying to work hard at being okay, I see a sweet baby commercial (or something else) and it throws me–sometimes that happens first thing in the morning before I can even make it out of the door.
I have to remember to come here when I think no one will understand what I am feeling. I am grateful for your honesty and support of each other. Thank you.