filling the silence in the motherhood discussion
Next Monday is Halloween, which for many of us means streams of cute children knocking on our front doors.
Love it or hate it; it’s hard to avoid it. So the discussion topic for this week is:
How do you handle this difficult holiday?
As it’s Whiny Wednesday, there’s room for your gripes here, too.
By Kathleen Guthrie Woods
Before I even get into this post, I need to alter my title. It should read “The Death of a Friend (Who Happened to be Childfree).” Okay, that’s better
I entered into an interesting dance with our issues and challenges when a friend of 20-plus years lost her battle with cancer. Mercifully, her fight wasn’t prolonged, and the end came quickly and with little pain and suffering. My grief, on the other hand, was debilitating. I took naps at odd hours, I burst into tears at the grocery store (spotted something I knew she liked, realized she’d never enjoy it again), I read something that made me think of her, went to call her, and remembered all over again that she’s gone.
As I told friends who are moms about her passing, what surprised me the most was how often the first question was “Did she have kids?”, to which I answered “No,” to which the response was “That’s good.” This exchange always left me feeling yucky; did this mean that her death and my loss had less of an impact because she wasn’t a mom? I get that it’s good that young children were not left motherless, but I can’t quite agree that it’s good she never had any, yet I know she didn’t feel that her life was lacking in any way. She had an extraordinary life—full of travels and adventures and loving friends—one that wouldn’t have been possible if she’d filled her days with parenting duties.
I wallowed in my grief, and I wallowed in the anticipation of what I perceived will be my own inevitably lonely passing. But before I could start hating all reproducers for their insensitivity, I got a call from another long-time friend, a stay-at-home mom. Even though she had only met the other woman a few times, she cried with me over my loss. She listened to my memories, she shared a few insights, and before long she had me laughing so hard that I was crying again.
In earlier posts I’ve complained about the comments made after tragedies in which children are lost, such as “Only a parent can understand.” I’ve argued that compassion isn’t exclusive to people who happen to be parents. So this experience was my lesson in reverse. In my vulnerable state, I so easily could have locked myself away with my childfree friends. Many friends offered their condolences, yet the one person who really understood, who was able to reach my heart and truly comfort me, is firmly established in the mommy club. Compassion isn’t exclusive to anyone, it’s a human trait. And aren’t we lucky that, when we really need it, it comes to us from many different sources.
Kathleen Guthrie Woods is a Northern California–based freelance writer. She is mostly at peace with being childfree.
By Lisa Manterfield
When I first realized I wasn’t going to be able to have children, I had no idea where to turn. Online searches for “infertility” only turned up more sites and books with miracle cures to help get me pregnant. Googling “childless support” almost always turned up groups and books celebrating being childfree-by-choice. There was some help out there, but often it was buried several pages back.
Ten years later, there is more support for people who find themselves childless-not-by-choice, but often that information is hard to find. So, today, I’d like to ask for your help in helping others.
If you’ve read books on the topics of infertility and being childless not by choice, and especially if you’ve found those books valuable, please consider writing a short review on Amazon.
The reason Amazon reviews are so important is that Amazon isn’t just a bookstore, it’s a huge search engine, enabling someone searching online for help to find the handful of books out there. Reviews of books on our topic help to push them up the rankings to make them more likely to pop up on the first page of a search. Reviews also let potential readers know that the book is trusted by others.
So I’d like to ask you now to take a few moments to help others find help and support. If you’ve read my books or if you’ve read books by Pamela, Jody, Justine, Jessica, Tracey, Melanie, or any other authors, please consider leaving a short review. (And if I’ve missed any books or authors, please add them in the comments.)
If you’ve never written a book review before, don’t worry. You don’t need to write more than a couple of sentences. Here are some examples borrowed from actual reviews:
“This book captured the many emotions of dealing with an infertility diagnosis and facing a life without children.”
“After learning I would not be able to have children, I found this book. It was like reading my own story.”
“This is an awesome book. I’ve been through the same challenges, concerns, worries, emotions, and could relate to the author’s journey.”
“I couldn’t put it down. I laughed, cried, laughed, and cried some more. A must read.”
“The author’s story is so similar to mine that I empathized with every word.”
“I really appreciated her sense of humor on this serious topic.”
“A must read for anyone struggling with infertility, the ethics of medical procedures, whether to adopt, etc.”
“Great read if you’ve gone through the struggles of trying to have a child.”
Below are links to my books, and the others I mentioned above. If you do write a review, please let know so I can say a huge and heartfelt thank you.
Life Without Baby: Surviving and Thriving When Motherhood Doesn’t Happen by Lisa Manterfield (Steel Rose Press, 2016)
I’m Taking My Eggs and Going Home: How One Woman Dared to Say No to Motherhood by Lisa Manterfield (Steel Rose Press, 2010)
Life Without Baby Workbooks by Lisa Manterfield:
Workbook 1: Letting Go of the Dream of Motherhood
Workbook 2: Getting Through the Grief of Childlessness
Workbook 3: Dealing With the Day-to-Day Challenges
Workbook 4: Thriving in a New Happily Ever After
Silent Sorority: A Barren Woman Gets Busy, Angry, Lost and Found by Pamela Mahoney Tsigdinos (BookSurge Publishing, 2009)
Living the Life Unexpected: 12 Weeks to Your Plan B for a Meaningful and Fulfilling Future Without Children by Jody Day (CreateSpace, 2013)
The Next Happy: Let Go of the Life You Planned and Find a New Way Forward by Tracey Cleantis (Hazelden, 2015)
Ever Upward: Overcoming the Lifelong Losses of Infertility by Justine Froelker (Morgan James, Publishing, 2014)
The Pursuit of Motherhood by Jessica Hepburn (Matador, 2014)
Otherhood: Modern Women Finding a New Kind of Happiness by Melanie Notkin (Seal Press, 2014)
Avalanche: A Love Story by Julia Leigh (W. W. Norton & Company, 2016)
Resurrection Year: Turning Broken Dreams Into New Beginnings by Sheridan Voysey (Thomas Nelson, 2013)
Finally, a big thank you to Cathy at Slow Swimmers and Fried Eggs, who did a really nice write-up for I‘m Taking My Eggs and Going Home last week, and reminded her readers (and me) of the importance of reviewing books on this topic.
By Kathleen Guthrie Woods
“Aunt Kath….” My young nephew looked up at me with his big brown eyes, my sister’s eyes.
“Yes, love.”
“You know what I’m doing right now?”
“Nope. Tell me.”
“I’m pretending you’re my mommy.”
My heart swelled to three times its size before I felt like it was then ripped out of my chest. Choking back a sob, I said, “That’s so sweet. Thank you. Tell me….” But before I could ask him about this imaginary family of his, where he got the idea, what kind of mommy I was (funny, strict, a lot like his real mommy), he had moved on to a new topic, something to do with a game he likes to play at his preschool. Hours later, alone with my thoughts, I revisited this exchange and struggled to come to terms with what it did to me.
I’m not new to this conversation. This sweet boy is the youngest of six nieces and nephews, and each has gone through this phase of wanting to pretend I’m their mommy. Out to lunch or shopping with a niece (“Let’s pretend you’re my mom.”), playing in the park with a nephew (“Maybe they think you’re my mom.”). They’re all great kids, so I’m flattered and touched by their game. And they’re all great kids, so it also slays me emotionally. I would have loved being their mom.
I expected to grieve my losses, feel left out, and wrestle with difficult choices in the coming-to-terms-with-being-childfree dance. I just didn’t think that the same moments that fill my soul with unanticipated joy could also send me into new cycles of depression. Brutal, right?
Kathleen Guthrie Woods is a Northern California–based freelance writer. She is mostly at peace with her childfree status.
This week’s suggested Whiny Wednesday topic is thought-provoking:
Fearing the quiet we will have for years
How do you feel about this? Is it something you worry about? If not, what is on your mind this week?
By Lisa Manterfield
I’ve been writing and talking a lot about grief lately—here on the blog, in my fiction, in my personal life, in the novels I’m reading, and for the Life Without Baby book that came out earlier this year. Even when I got chatting to a stranger on a plane, the conversation turned to the topic of grief.
Over paper cups of tea, this woman—who had lost her brother to suicide—and I talked about how grief stays with us long after we’re “over it”, how the shape of grief changes with time, how it can change us, and how everyone carries around their own personal grief.
My only regret in the discussion is that it didn’t begin sooner on our journey, because I would have liked to hear more about what she had to say on the subject. But eventually we parted ways, she to her office and I to catch another flight, and I didn’t have the opportunity to ask her more about her grief.
So, I’d like to ask you instead.
As a society, I don’t believe the topic of grief gets enough attention. We’re uncomfortable with grieving people, no matter what type of loss they’ve suffered, but it’s especially true when the loss isn’t understood.
So let’s start the conversation now. Let’s talk about this grief. I’d love to hear what you have to say.
By Lisa Manterfield
One of the big changes I’ve seen since starting this site is that the topics of infertility and childlessness are being brought out from behind closed doors and are being discussed in more public forums.
Whereas once I felt as if I was the only person talking openly about this, I’ve since found an incredible network of fellow bloggers and authors writing very intimately about their stories. I’ve also received several requests to complete surveys from researchers who are exploring the effects and issues of unplanned childlessness.
In your corner of the world, you may still be feeling that NO ONE is talking about this, that no one understands what you’re going through, and even your closest confidants don’t want to talk about it. Sadly, I think this is still true for most of us. But the tide is turning, and the more we talk about this topic and the more we venture out and start these conversations, the less taboo it will become.
Even if you’re not ready (or feel as if you will never be ready) to start your own campaign for understanding, you’re already part of this quiet revolution. You’re here, you’re talking about your experience with others, you’re sharing comfort and encouraging other readers. Even if you’re doing all of this anonymously and even if you’re coming here in secret to contribute to these conversations, you are part of the change that’s coming.
This issue is never going to go away, in fact I believe that our segment of the population will only continue to grow (but that’s another post for another day), but perhaps in the future, our sisters who need help will be able to pick up a leaflet from their doctors or walk into a local support group or sit down with a friend over coffee and feel comfortable talking openly about what it feels to not to have the children you wanted.
Thanks for not rebelling after last week’s missing Whiny Wednesday post. This week’s topic is for those of you who arrived here via the infertility route.
Do you feel you were left hanging by the fertility industry?
Okay, I know that’s a loaded question, so if you don’t feel like jumping in on this topic, or if it doesn’t apply to you, feel free to bring your own whine to the party this week.
By Lisa Manterfield
Today’s post is dedicated to Share’s Walk of Remembrance and the Wave of Light in support of infertility and pregnancy loss. Through this Footprints blog tour, we aim to shatter the stigma. Please check out this list of courageous bloggers sharing their stories. Here’s mine:
Before my children were born, I imagined them vividly. I laid out a smorgasbord of family traits and handpicked the best of them.
My son, Valentino, would be named for my husband’s favorite uncle, and he’d be a chip off the old block. He’d have his daddy’s good looks—the profile of an Aztec Prince—paired with Grandma Tilly’s curiosity and great-grandpa Aureliano’s piercing green eyes. I pictured my Valentino to be charismatic and creative; he’d love music and art, and of course, he’d adore his mother.
My daughter, naturally, would take after my side of the family. Sophia would be named for my dad’s mother and would inherit her spirit of survival and her generosity, and she’d get my straight hair, so I’d know how to deal with it. I could picture Sophia easily, and I’m sure you’ll understand when I tell you that I knew she would be beautiful.
Before they were born—in fact, before they were even conceived—I imagined my children to life, and they were absolutely perfect. And why wouldn’t they be? Does any mother really imagine her future offspring any other way?
But here’s the thing. My children are perfect. Sophia and Valentino could never be anything but perfect, because they never got the chance to exist anywhere but in my imagination.
I was 38 years old, and four years into trying to conceive my children when my doctor pulled out a notepad and drew a lopsided oval. “Imagine this is your ovary,” he said.
“You have one producing follicle.”
It just takes one, I thought, but the doctor looked at the wall just past my eyes and I could tell this news wasn’t going to be good.
He explained what was going on in perfectly logical, unsentimental, doctor speak—I assume—but what I heard was:
“A normal ovary should have 6-10 good follicles, but you have mumbo-jumbo-icky-sticky-messed-up-insidy-bits-itis, so you have a snowflake’s chance in hell of having a baby.”
The actual math worked out like this:
Mr. Fab (my hubby) plus Lisa (that’s me) to the power of love, equals big fat nothing, no baby to infinity.
Mr. Fab plus Lisa times IVF times unknown X equals approximately 25 percent chance of conception.
Mr. Fab plus egg donor minus Lisa minus love, all to the power of voodoo times big bucks squared equals a 50-50 shot, maybe baby, maybe not.
I can’t move on from this particular part of the story without mentioning that up until this point, IVF had been sold to us as the silver bullet, the sure thing, with glossy brochures showing healthy bouncing babies and glowing parents. There was no mention of the outrageous expense, the painful injections, or the emotional toll of the slippery slope of hope, expectation, and disappointment. The odds quoted covered the vast spectrum of all women, all ages, all scenarios and were not calculated for one Lisa, one set of dud ovaries, one desperate attempt. Instead we were simply told, “It will all be worth it when you get your baby.”
I’m sure the doctor expected us to say, “Where do I sign?” But his glossy offer wasn’t nearly good enough for me to bet my money, my body, and, most of all, my heart on, so we said, “No thank you,” and left.
There’s a lot more to this story of course, enough to fill two books and almost 1,400 blog posts. Suffice to say, my husband and I, armed with information from every possible source, explored all the avenues available, but ultimately our children, a pregnancy, even a near-miss, eluded us. We made the hardest decision of our lives and started trying to figure out how to build a life that didn’t include Valentino or Sophia.
It’s been a long road of acceptance, filled with a lot of tears, much stomping around being furious at the world, and yes, I’ll admit it, a fair bit of glaring at mothers who don’t fully appreciate the children they’ve been given, and griping about the unfairness of how life’s blessings are sometimes doled out (see any Whiny Wednesday post for details.) But I’m doing pretty well at this childless thing now.
That said, my wounds have scabbed, rather than healed, and I have yet to put myself through the torture of accepting a baby shower invitation. The last one I went to was for a baby boy who’s now in middle school. I’ve sent gifts and visited every friend’s newborn, but I just couldn’t face all that comparing pregnant bellies and passing around impossibly tiny onesies, or the smiling faces saying, “You’re next!” I knew I’d just end up hyperventilating in the guest bathroom again.
But if a well-meaning, but stressed-out mom tells me, “You wouldn’t understand; you’re not a mother,” I can now simply grit my teeth and try to put myself in her shoes. I’ll suggest that maybe because I’m not entrenched in the child-rearing wars, I could offer a different perspective, and that perhaps my four decades of preparing for my own children, might give me some grounds for an opinion.
And when this mom tells me how perfect her children are, I’ll just smile and nod, because I know that mine are perfect, too. My daughter, Sophia, is whip smart and beautiful, and has never slammed a door or yelled that she hates me. And my son, my Valentino? He’s just so handsome, with those gorgeous green eyes, and oh, how he loves his mother.
I know every mother thinks her children are perfect, but in my memories and in my heart, mine really are—and they always will be.
The Footprints Blog Tour runs until October 15. Be sure to check out Erin’s piece that ran on Thursday and Lisa’s blog, out tomorrow.
If you’d like to participate on October 15, please post your Walk of Remembrance photos on social media using #ShareWalk2016 and your Wave of Light candle at 7pm that evening using #WaveofLight #pregnancyandinfantlossawareness.
By Lisa Manterfield
I’m going to say this up front so I can get it out of the way: I really didn’t want to read any more books about infertility.
Like all of us here, I’ve worked hard to heal the wounds of my own infertility so that I can step out into a world full of mothers and children and not feel as if I’m about to suffocate. Reading other people’s stories played a big part in my recovery. I’ve done the work and the result it that life is pretty good these days, even without children of my own.
I am also aware that the hurt has not really gone away. It lurks under the surface, moving deeper year-by-year, granted, but always there. I’ve avoided reading more infertility stories because I don’t want to go back to those treatment rooms, those times of frustration, and that deep, dark sadness of being unable to create life. Even writing this last sentence reminds me of where I once was. So you see where my reluctance comes from.
But recently, Pamela at Silent Sorority asked me to participate in a blog tour for Julia Leigh’s memoir, Avalanche, A Love Story. Of course, I agreed. While our “sorority” may have been silent when Pamela wrote her book almost a decade ago, this is no longer the case. (You can see the growing list of bloggers who agreed to participate in this post.) We are vocal, we are sharing our stories, and we are supporting one another.
Despite our willingness to speak and write, there remains much ignorance and misunderstanding surrounding infertility. It’s what prompts pitying looks from people who ask if we have kids, and it prompts all the platitudes and hurtful comments we hear, falsely labeled as “helpful.” My personal favorites are “Just do IVF”, “Why didn’t you just adopt?”, and “You can’t have really wanted kids if you gave up so easily.”
Which is why we need to support authors like Leigh, who are willing to risk (and receive) judgement and pity because they crossed their own lines in the pursuit of motherhood. It’s important that women facing the possibility of fertility treatments find honest accounts of what it really entails (even if they choose to believe it will be different for them!) And it’s important that others who have no experience with infertility get to read a compelling story and perhaps gain insight, understand, and most of all, compassion. It’s why I sucked it up and bought and read Avalanche: A Love Story.
The book is short (I read it in two sittings) but powerful and beautifully written. It did indeed take me back to many of my own experiences, and at times I found myself wanting to yank her aside and impart my hard-earned wisdom on her. So many times I begged her not to make the choices she was about to make, but understanding how quickly logic and decision-making skills warp in the infertility world. By the end, I found myself connected to another infertility sister and understanding myself a little more.
I’ll be posting my full review on Amazon. If you decide to read the book, I encourage you to also leave a review. Word-of mouth is still the number one way most of us find books, and second only to buying books, reviews are the best way to support an author.
Pamela is hosting a blog tour for Julia’s book today. You’ll find a list of the participating bloggers here. I hope you’ll take a moment to visit some of them and perhaps find some new voices.
P.S. I know this post has replaced the usual Whiny Wednesday spot, but I think there’s enough in here to prompt a little outrage. Whiny Wednesday will be back next week.
~ "a raw, transparent account of the gut-wrenching journey of infertility."
~ "a welcome sanity check for women left to wonder how society became so fixated on motherhood."
