I hope you made it through the past weekend relatively unscathed. So, do tell:
How did Mother’s Day go for you?
How did you handle it? How did it go? What went well? What didn’t? Let us know the good, the bad, and the flat-out ugly.
Whiny Wednesday: Infertility Amnesia
A friend of mine went through infertility hell a few years ago. When we learned of one another’s journeys, we were both glad to have an empathetic shoulder to lean on.
Then she became a mother, and developed infertility amnesia.
I’m not begrudging her the celebrations, the constant Facebook posts, or the incessant parenting talk. I get it; I’m sure I’d do the same in her situation. But the final straw came last week.
A group of us gets together about once a year and we’re starting to plan for this year. We usually go out for dinner, or bowling, or drinks and dancing. Several of us in the group don’t have children and those who do are always glad for a childfree night of adult fun.
This year, the new mom suggested we change things up and do something family-oriented and include the kids. “Maybe a beach picnic or Disneyland.” I kid you not.
Thankfully one of the other parents shot the idea down, but I had to wonder how she would have felt five years ago, in the thick of her infertility hell, if someone had made this same suggestion.
She would have felt excluded and she would have been upset. Which is just how I felt when I got her email.
Today is Whiny Wednesday. Who or what has done you wrong this week?
Whiny Wednesday: “I Never Knew Love Until…”
This hot-button whine was sent in from one of our readers.
When you read an interview of some celebrity or hear someone say:
“I never knew what love was until I had a child.”
So…is she saying that because I’m childless I’m not capable or “real” love or that I will be denied the experience of the highest expression of love?
Whether this makes your blood boil or cuts you to the core, whine away, sisters!
And if you have another great whine you need to get off your chest this week, here’s the place to let it rip.
Do You Ever Get Over Loss?
My friend Paula turned 50 this year. It’s been more than a decade since she and her husband realized it was time to accept that they wouldn’t have children. For ten years she’s been working through the mess—the grief, the anger, the sadness, the despair, the big, big question of “what am I am going to do now that I won’t be a mother?” And because her older brother was a confirmed bachelor, Paula also felt pressure from her parents to produce a grandchild, even though they never said it out loud.
But that was a long time ago. If you ask Paula now, she’ll tell you she’s “cured.” She’ll tell you that, most days, she doesn’t think about the fact that she’s childless. She and her husband travel, they have a broad circle of friends, she’s been able to hop on career opportunities that would have been difficult with small children. She enjoys her friends’ children and she enjoys handing them back to their parents. In her candid moments, she’ll say her life worked out better than she’d expected and might not have been so great if she’d had the children she once so desperately desired.
Life is pretty good for Paula.
And then her brother fell in love, married, and shortly thereafter announced he would become a father. Paula called me in tears. She was utterly blindsided by her tearful reaction.
“I thought I was over this,” she said. “I wouldn’t swap places with my brother for anything. A newborn at 53? Nightmare.”
She told me her parents were over the moon, that her mother was telling everyone that she was going to be a grandma. “At last,” she told people, giving Paula a meaningful look.
“At last?” Paula said to her father. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
And that’s when her dad opened up. He admitted how “difficult” all this waiting and longing had been for them. He’d felt left out too, he told her.
She understood, but his confession found its way deep inside Paula, to that one small dark spot that had yet to heal, and poured salt into all those old—and now reopened—wounds. The guilt and shame that consumed her in that moment was overwhelming, and the tremendous weight of that was part of what took her by surprise. Her brother had made her aging parents happy, had given them the thing she couldn’t. The family torch had been passed and it wouldn’t be to Paula.
When I talked to Paula again a couple of weeks later, she assured me that she was going to be okay. She said a part of her was looking forward to being an aunt and that her big grown-up self was happy for her brother and her parents.
“But,” she added, “people always ask how long it takes to get over not being a mother. I always thought seven or eight years was about right, but now I think maybe the answer is ‘never.’”
How Time Moves Differently When You Don’t Have Children
I do hope this isn’t simply a factor of aging, but lately I seem to have lost my ability to keep track of time. I was always so good at remembering things like how many years ago we visited such-and-such a place, or where we spent Christmas four years ago. But the last several years of my life have suddenly blurred into one big event. I can no longer accurately mark time.
Over lunch with a friend recently, we talked about her daughter and both expressed shock that she is already 16. How the years fly! We talked about another friend who has since moved away and how vividly we remember going to see her new baby so many years ago. I realized that I have no idea how old this little boy is now. I guessed he was probably somewhere around 10 or 12, but my friend knew exactly. “He’s two years younger than my daughter. He’ll be 14 in March.” I felt guilty that I didn’t remember that.
Walking home after lunch, it dawned on me that my time amnesia might have a lot to do with not having children. My friend is reminded on a daily basis of how old her children are. She marks the passing of time with birthday parties, school grades, and childhood milestones. She knows how long ago something happened, because she knows how old her kids were, or what grade they were in at the time. She knows how old our friend’s son is because she remembers where she was on her motherhood path when our friend was pregnant. I don’t have that marker and so I have to try to fill in the gaps with other events, or news headlines to mark time in my memory. But unless something significant happened, I don’t have those milestones to grasp onto.
Without children to mark time and propel my life forward, I can see how easy it could be to drift through the years. Children create milestones and new direction and, while I’m not in any danger of falling into a rut yet, I can see how easily my life could lose direction.
Maybe I’ve just hit by a patch of melancholy again, so does anyone else see this? Do any of you feel as if your life is drifting by?
Whiny Wednesday: People Who Won’t Let You Quit the Quest for Motherhood
Most people in my life were supportive when I told them about my decision to end my quest for motherhood. But there were some who didn’t want me to quit. They kept offering unsolicited advice and stories of other people’s miracles, when what I really needed from them was a kind and understanding word.
So this week’s whine topic is:
People who won’t let you quit
Happy whining!
How We Heal Our Emotional Scars
I have a large scar on my left knee. It has black lines of grit in it, and smooth patches of scar tissue that catch the light on an otherwise rough patch of skin.
My scar is 30 years old and I don’t think about it very often anymore. It doesn’t hurt, even when I poke it, and the wound that caused it healed long ago.
But if I think back to the day I got my scar, all the memories and the pain come flooding back. I remember the bike accident. I remember riding through the trees on a gorgeous sunny day, laughing with my friends and flirting with a boy I liked. I remember trying to get his attention and catching my front wheel on his back tire. I don’t recall sailing through the air, but I must have done, because I do remember skidding along the trail, trading bits of knee for bits of trail.
I remember sitting in the bath at home and crying as my mum tried to clean the wound. And I remember my older brother—a bit of an expert on injuries and scars—gently coaxing me to scrub out the grit or be left with a terrible scar.
I also have a vague recollection of a discussion among adults (not my parents) about plastic surgery and what a shame it would be if a “pretty girl” was disfigured by an ugly scar.
It all happened so long ago, but dredging up these memories can bring back all that pain, my embarrassment, the tenderness of my brother, the feeling that my scar would make me “less than” I could have been. I can feel all of it again as if it had happened in more recent memory.
Emotional Scars
I feel this way about my infertility and childlessness, too. Most days, I don’t think about it anymore. But lately I’ve been writing about grief and loss, and some of those awful feelings of sadness, anger, and deep, deep loss have been coming back to me.
It’s taught me that the healing process for emotional scars is much the same as for physical scars.
You have to suffer some terrible pain to clean the wound. You have to struggle through the initial all-consuming grief. You have to ask for support from people who might not know how to give it. You have to walk again, even if every step is agony. You’ll meet people who will see you as damaged and less than you could have been, because you no longer fit into their ideal of perfect.
But over time the healing begins. You’ll knock your healing wound a few times and break it open again. In one particularly unfortunate incident, you’ll fall on the same wound and end up with a double scar. But you’ll remember how much you loved riding a bike and you’ll take it up again. And you’ll meet new people, who don’t care whether you have one ugly knee, because they’re more interested in some other facet of who you are. And you’ll realize that being a “pretty girl” wasn’t what you were destined to be anyway, and you’re happy being an outdoorsy girl who’s accumulated a multitude of scars since then.
And when you’re shaving your legs (which is trickier because of the scar) you might sometimes recall how you got the scar and the pain you went through. But most days, you won’t even think about.
Having a big scar on my knee means I never got the opportunity to be a leg model, but I got to be so many other things instead, things that have made my life journey quite interesting. My infertility scar is much newer than my knee scar, but it is healing in ways I couldn’t have imagined when it was new and raw. And the things I never got to do or be have left room for so many other opportunities.
Whiny Wednesday: Being Lonely Without Children
Some years ago, a young relative asked why I didn’t have children. I gave him an explanation that was honest, while also being appropriate for a young boy.
And then he asked me, “But won’t you be lonely?”
To this I responded that I had Mr. Fab and that I’d be fine. But actually, I think he may have hit a nerve, because even though I value the quiet time I have, sometimes it can feel a little lonely.
It’s Whiny Wednesday, what truths have hit a nerve with you?
It Got Me Thinking…About Milestones
I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting lately, thinking back to where I was physically and emotionally five, ten, 15 years ago. There have been many turning points and milestones along the way, including the day I knew for (almost) certain I would never have children of my own, to the day I left my family of friends to start fresh in a new city, to the day I said “I do” and married my generous, kind, funny, supportive, and challenging (in good ways) husband.
I’ve also acknowledged some steps in my healing process, and one that feels incredibly significant to me from this past year was decorating a tree for Christmas. Last year I just.couldn’t.do.it. It was too hard, the wounds from my losses felt too deep. I would have no little ones to ooh and ahh over the colored lights, no one to mix fudge and bake Gram’s Coffee Cake with me, only a handful of presents under the tree versus the pile of loot I had always assumed Santa would drop off for my family. I couldn’t see why I should bother, because the only person I was going to create any kind of holiday festiveness for was me.
Ah.
Ah-hah.
It was in those moments that I made the decision “Next year will be different”, and I made good on my promise to myself. My husband and I picked out our tree over Thanksgiving weekend and hauled all of the bins of fake holly and other Christmas stuff up from the basement. It still took me a couple of weeks to get up the courage (yes, courage) to unwrap the mementos and place them around our home, but I did it. And I was okay. It wasn’t all merriment, but I did catch myself taking in the pretty wreath in the kitchen and the fancy dishes on the table and the lights on the tree and actually smiling. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress, and I am patting myself on the back for that.
’Tis the season to look back and look forward, and now that I’ve done the former, I’m eager to get started on the forward part. Here comes 2019! May she be filled with moments of joy and grace, with dear friends and new opportunities, with the achievement of new levels of healing and hopefulness.
I wish the same for you. Happy New Year! xo Kathleen
It Got Me Thinking…About Permission
Through the years of being part of our Life Without Baby community, I really thought I’d heard every possible horror story. But recently a friend told me about her nightmare experience at a baby shower, and I am aghast. At that gathering, the hostess introduced a new game: A bag is passed around the room, and each guest pulls out a pregnancy test. (I could not make this up.) When everyone has one, they all look, and the woman holding a positive test announces to the room “I’M PREGNANT!” and wins a prize.
Apparently it’s the hot new trend at baby showers.
It got even worse for my friend. When the bag came to her, she tried to let it pass, but the woman sitting next to her insisted she play. “I’ve taken plenty of pregnancy tests, and they’ve all been negative,” my friend said quietly. “I don’t need to go through this again.” At which point her neighbor took this as an invitation to loudly out my friend as a childless woman and offer advice: “You should try IVF! A friend of a friend had a miracle baby in her late 40s! You could always adopt!”
My friend, who is a much stronger person than I am, managed to laugh it off. Weeks after hearing her tale, my blood is still boiling. I put myself in her shoes and wondered how I would have reacted in that situation. Part of me hopes I would have turned to the intrusive and insensitive stranger and said something like, “F— you and the horse you rode in on,” which would have been inappropriate and rude, but might have made me feel better in the moment.
But the reality is I probably would have just sat there and taken the abuse, while shutting a part of myself down in an attempt to get through the party without dissolving into a sobbing puddle and amplifying an already grotesque public humiliation. Sigh.
Next time—because there will be ladies luncheons, holiday parties, family get-togethers, and other events that will turn sour—what I really hope I will do is stand up and walk out. Period.
And it got me thinking that I could give myself permission to save myself. (This goes for you, too.) I don’t owe anyone any excuses. I don’t even need to say, “Excuse me” as I get up. I suppose I could say, “Where’s the restroom?” to make a graceful exit, but as soon as I am out of range, I could head straight out the door and to my car (and have my meltdown in private).
Would this cause a scene? Perhaps. Would it cause people to talk? Possibly, and maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe my walking out and calling attention to how horribly hurtful something is would get people to think and have some compassion. And at the very least, I might hang on to a shred of my dignity, and that’s worth a lot.
I hope you’ll keep this in mind the next time you’re caught off guard by someone else’s poor choices. I hope you’ll remember that I have given you permission to take care of and stand up for yourself.
We don’t have to take abuse from anyone.
