filling the silence in the motherhood discussion
With any kind of grief, there comes a point where those around you expect you to be over it. For many of us, that point comes just as the full impact of loss is hitting us and we are far from okay. So here’s this week’s topic:
The pressure to “get over” your loss
Have you felt that pressure from those around you?
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.
As told to Kathleen Guthrie Woods
Rosie suffered a miscarriage early in her current relationship, which prompted her partner to reveal he didn’t want any more children other than the daughter he already has. However, he also said he “might” be willing to have a child with her, if that’s what she really wanted. For Rosie, it’s a difficult moral and ethical dilemma, and she would “hate to have to choose between him and motherhood.”
Meanwhile, at 32, she’s noticing “time ticking on,” and it’s becoming more and more painful to her to acknowledge she may never have children on her own.
Should she stay with the partner she loves, or choose a chance at motherhood over him? Here’s her story, one that reveals a different reason why some people end up childfree.
LWB: Are you childfree by choice, chance, or circumstance?
Rosie: I’m childfree by circumstance. After I was devastated by the end of my first long-term relationship, some lousy dates, and a couple of disastrous, short-term relationships, I finally met my current partner. He’s older than I am and has a child from a previous relationship. A contraceptive failure meant that I accidentally fell pregnant within the first year of our relationship. It was a rollercoaster of emotions, but my boyfriend was supportive. Then I miscarried at 11 weeks. It was really tough, emotionally and physically. My partner and I had some heart-to-heart discussions, and it came to light that he would prefer not to have any more children. I’m just not sure I could push for us to have kids when it’s not something he really wants. It could lead to resentment or a breakdown in the relationship—and I love my partner.
LWB: Where are you on your journey now?
Rosie: I honestly don’t know. Most of the time I feel like I’m perfectly content with my partner and the life we have. My relationship with my young stepdaughter is great, and I value the bond we have. But I’m not her mother, and I’m reminded of this at various junctures during the time we spend together. For example, when she falls and grazes her knee, it’s her daddy she seeks for comfort. Sometimes, when I have a meeting at work with someone who’s heavily pregnant, or I hear a colleague talk about her child starting school, I feel sad about the child we lost and I feel like I can’t cope with being childless for another second. I’m still considering what to do and how to move forward. Should I stay in a relationship with the man I love, who may or may not want children (and risk never being a parent), or should I move on…but to what?
LWB: What’s the hardest part for you about not having children?
Rosie: The feeling that there is so much love in my heart ready for a child, but that this may never be realized. The sense that there’s a whole other world of love, joy, and wonder that I cannot be a part of. That my life hasn’t fully “started” properly yet, because I don’t have children. Dealing with insensitive (and sometimes ridiculous) comments from friends, family members, and colleagues about my childless status (such as “It’ll be your turn next!” “If you want a baby, just stop using birth control and don’t tell your partner.”).
LWB: What’s one thing you want other people to know about your being childfree?
Rosie: That there are numerous reasons why some people don’t have children, that it’s not just a case of “didn’t want/couldn’t have.” The reasons why people are childfree are unique to each individual and should be treated with compassion and sensitivity. Sometimes I might wish to finish work early, or not always be the one to work the holiday shifts, even though I don’t have children. I may not understand what it is to be a mother, but I do understand what it is to experience love, pain, tiredness, illness. I know what it is to be a part of a family, struggle with work/life balance, and make ends meet. I may not have children, but I still would like to be regarded as a human being of worth and be valued equally as those with children.
LWB: How has LWB helped you on your journey?
Rosie: Before I found LWB, I felt so alone with my feelings. These aren’t the sort of thoughts and feelings I can share with friends, colleagues, or family (most of whom have children), as they just don’t really seem to “get” where I’m coming from. Finding LWB has been a really enlightening and positive experience.
Rosie mentioned in her cover letter what a healing experience it was to write and share her story. I hope you’ll share your story with us. Go to the Our Stories page to get more information and the questionnaire.
If you’re not quite ready for this step, I encourage you to check out the Community Forums and other Our Stories, where you will find support from LWB readers who have traveled paths similar to yours.
Kathleen Guthrie Woods is a Northern California–based freelance writer. She is mostly at peace with her childfree status.
In the six years since I started this site, I don’t think I’ve ever done a book review for a novel. I’ve been reluctant to read any books covering the topic of infertility because I feared they might trigger some deep-seated emotions and undo all the work I’ve done. I’ve been especially reluctant to read fiction as I’ve always been afraid of the inevitable happy ending.
But recently I’ve had several requests to review novels on the topic of infertility, so I decided it was time to take the plunge. I know many of you are avid readers, so I hope you’ll enjoy the upcoming reviews.
In her debut novel, The End of Miracles (She Writes Press, 2016), author Monica Starkman, M.D., delves into her extensive professional research to explore the emotional devastation of miscarriage and stillbirth.
After fruitless years battling infertility, Margo Kerber is devastated when her seemingly miraculous pregnancy ends in a late-term miscarriage. Convinced she is pregnant again, Margo finds temporary relief from her grief. But when her fantasy clashes with reality and Margo’s pregnancy is discovered to be false, she slips into a deep depression that clouds both her grasp of reality and her judgment. When she spots a briefly unattended infant, she is compelled to commit an unthinkable crime.
From the opening of the book, I felt as if I were in the hands of someone writing with authority about the psychological aspects of infertility and how numbing grief can be. I found myself recognizing many of the “crazy” thoughts I had on my own journey, which Starkman courageously commits to paper.
I asked Starkman about her work in psychology and about her decision to tell this story:
Life Without Baby: What prompted you to write this book?
Monica Starkman: I had wanted to write a novel for a long time, in part to give something back to the world of literature as thanks for all the joy I’ve gained from reading. Nothing had piqued my interest enough to make the effort until I was asked to consult on and treat two women with false pregnancies. I realized that here was a topic: the strong desire and need to be pregnant, and the powerful repercussions of the frustration of that desire. That was intriguing and important enough for me to devote the time and determination that writing a novel required.
LWB: In your work as a psychiatrist, have you seen changes in the level of understanding about the emotional impact of infertility and unexpected childlessness?
MS: I can’t say that I have. I think that for even the woman/couple affected, the intensity of the emotions elicited by infertility and miscarriage still come as a complete surprise. And those not so affected are just beginning to realize this as well. For this reason, I recently wrote articles for MariaShriver.com and for PsychologyToday.com about miscarriage, false pregnancy, and infertility. I hope The End of Miracles will also bring such understanding to its readers.
LWB: In the book, Margo’s psychiatrist discusses the mind-body connection as regards to reproductive health. Could you talk a little more about this?
MS: Stress affects the brain, which can then affect the body by changing hormone levels and immune function, which can also impact reproductive function. However, for the survival of the species, Mother Nature protects reproduction as much as possible to withstand these effects. The mind-body relationship is bidirectional: the body also affects the mind. And as those affected with infertility know all too well, its negative effects on mental well-being are quite powerful.
LWB: As a writer and psychiatrist, you’re involved with both the sharing and receiving of stories. Why do you feel it’s important for us to share our stories?
MS: Being able to express strong feelings, by talking or writing about them, does help process them, relieves some of the internal pressure, and helps to come to terms with and master those feelings. Sharing stories helps others better understand how those affected feel and encourages compassion. In return, social support from empathetic others is a very important contributing factor on the path to healing.
LWB: What else do you hope to achieve with The End of Miracles?
MS: I want to give readers an accurate insider’s portrayal of psychiatry and psychiatrists. I hope to promote the idea that people with severe psychiatric illnesses, such as serious depression, aren’t so very different from the rest of us, and that despite their unraveling, there can be a path for healing.
Monica Starkman, M.D., is associate professor of psychiatry emerita and scientific researcher at the University of Michigan Medical School’s Department of Psychiatry. As a recognized expert on the effects of stress hormones on mood and brain structure, Monica has been published by dozens of academic journals and several news outlets including The New Republic, Vogue and MariaShriver.com.
By Robin
Communication.
It’s an enormous word, or at least its impact is. What a difference communicating makes. It opens up an entire world of reality. It lets people in. This is one of the reasons some people choose not to communicate. Sometimes it’s so much easier to assume than actually go through the process of finding something out. This is something I am guilty of.
After my most recent miscarriage, I pushed my husband away. I was in so much pain and didn’t know what to do. I had lost hope and wasn’t sure if I’d ever get it back. At one point my husband and I sat down and told each other that, with my outlook (all hope is lost) and his outlook (we can try again when we’re ready), we were wearing on one another. Neither of us could take much more of the opposite. With this said between us I stopped communicating with him. I didn’t want to cause him pain because I was in enough of it for both of us. I was also in fear that he would leave (even though he NEVER gave me a reason to think that.) It wasn’t until I realized by NOT communicating I was making things worse that I decided to try communicating how I felt and tell my husband what he could do for me while I was hurting. First I had to figure out how I felt and what I needed, but then I had to communicate it to the person I wanted and needed.
When I chose to communicate, a world of happiness followed. I realized I had assumed most things wrong. Even the few things I may have assumed correctly weren’t nearly as awful as I’d thought, and most made more sense with a little explanation. My husband told me the reasons behind why he had the outlook he had (way more positive and filled with hope than I could ever muster right after losing my baby) and that he wanted to take away my pain, “fix it”, because he loved me. He reminded me that we don’t get this time back and he wants to enjoy every moment of our life together with or without a baby in it. I realized he can see his future with or without a baby and, even though he’ll be happier with one, he’ll be ok either way. I, on the other hand, still can’t bring myself to seeing a future without one. (Note to self: I need to work on this, just in case.) I needed my husband to remind me we’re in this together, whatever “this” ends up being.
Communication has brought my husband and me closer. It brings us all closer to those we communicate with. It brought back happiness in my life and relationships. Things that used to bother me aren’t as important anymore. They aren’t worth being bothered over. I’ve never been happier I communicated my feelings and what I needed. First I had to figure those two things out which is a struggle of it’s own. BUT when you figure out what you need and how you feel, I highly recommend communicating and sharing those things with the people around you. The people you feel the safest with and know and love you. Also share with them how you need them to respond or not respond to the way you feel. Sometimes all you need is a listening ear and not a solution. Many times the people who care about you want to help you any way they can. I needed to tell my husband there wasn’t a solution to keep me from grieving. I just needed to stop running and feel these emotions right now in order to get through them. I had to let him know all I needed from him was a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on. Communication is a wonderful thing and I hope you, too, find happiness or peace through it.
I wish I had realized the importance of communication sooner because since I communicated with my husband, and he with me, we have felt as close to each other as we did when we were newlyweds. We haven’t felt this way for years. I know my grieving isn’t over and who knows what feelings will come when/if we try again or decide we’re through and begin our own life without baby adventure. What I do know is that if we continue to communicate openly and honestly we will be much happier and most likely see the next 10+ years together.
About Robin: I live in New Hampshire with my husband of 10 years and our 4 year old dog, Samuel Adams, aka Sam. We have been trying to conceive through IVF for a little over 2 years. We’ve been through 6 cycles resulting in 3 failed attempts along with 1 ectopic pregnancy and 2 miscarriages. We are currently taking a break after our last miscarriage in August 2012. We are taking things a day at a time and trying to reconnect before making a decision whether or not to try again in the New Year. If you’d like to follow my blog as I write about our journey, come check it out at www.miraclesinwaiting.com.
Editor’s Note: If you’d like to see your story in “You’re Not Alone,” check out our Guidelines for how to submit.
Do you have an “anniversary”, a day that is significant on your journey? Maybe it’s the day you decided to stop trying to conceive, or perhaps it’s the date of a miscarriage or stillbirth. How do you deal with those days?
My friend’s father died earlier this year, and she recently marked what would have been his birthday. She gathered some of her family and “celebrated” in a way he would have enjoyed. Her friends understood it was going to be a rough day for her and we gave her space and offered to listen, if she needed to talk.
But how do you deal with an anniversary that many other people wouldn’t understand?
I don’t really have any of those anniversaries. My quest for a baby simply ran out of gas. I never actually conceived, so my losses weren’t marked by any particular events. But if they were, I would mark those anniversaries the same way I remember other losses.
I wouldn’t schedule any work events or meetings that day. In fact, I might take the day off all together. I would be kind to myself and I’d allow myself to experience whatever emotions came up or me. I think I would give myself permission to just let my sadness be.
And the following day I’d get up and get back on the horse. I’d go about my business and I’d keep myself moving forward. I would get on with my life and I’d make plans to make it the best life it could be, and maybe the next time the anniversary rolled around, I’d feel that pain a little bit less, but that doesn’t mean I would forget what brought me to this point in the first place.
That’s what I’d do. How about you?
This post was originally published on March 29, 2011.
So many words come to mind when we think of Marilyn – bombshell, icon, tragic, to name but a few. Her image is universally recognizable, and almost half a century after her death, she remains an enigma. Above all, though, Marilyn Monroe was a star. She understood fame, even if she didn’t always like it, and she understood that her image was everything. She played the dumb blonde to perfection, but beneath that veneer, she was far from innocent or ignorant. You only have to read some of her whip-smart quotes to see that.
I have a special affinity for Marilyn that I’ve never been able to quite put my finger on. Her movies are among my guilty pleasures, with Some Like it Hot topping my list. There was something fragile and untouchable about her, and yet she had a strength and fortitude that I admire.
Marilyn was married three times, to James Dougherty, and more famously to Joe DiMaggio and then Arthur Miller. She never had children.
I wondered if she was childfree-by-choice, and how having children would have changed her life, her career, and her image. This was during an era when stars disappeared to quietly give birth and then reappeared on screen as stunning as ever. Motherhood and sexiness did not go hand-in-hand.
But in snooping around for this post, I discovered that Marilyn had suffered several miscarriages and at least two ectopic pregnancies that were terminated. For me, this information casts an entirely different light on the sadness I could always sense behind Marilyn’s eyes. Maybe that’s the unexplainable thing that has always drawn me to her.
Marilyn is one of my favorite Cheroes from this month, and she’s also responsible for the quote that stumped almost everyone in the Expressing Motherhood contest! Fortunately, Jennifer Segundo got it, and by virtue of being the ONLY correct answer, she is also the lucky winner! Thanks to everyone else for some great guesses.
Be honest. You’ve played this game, haven’t you? Someone tells you something awful, and you immediately weigh it against your own loss. It’s ok, you can say it. Tell you what, if it will make you feel better, I’ll go first.
My friend has suffered a series of miscarriages over the past couple of years and is now talking very openly about her infertility. She and I are kindred spirits…except that she already has a daughter. I have been supportive of her courage to speak out about secondary infertility, but that little voice in the back of my head keeps popping up. You know the one, don’t you? It’s the one that says, “Well, at least she got to have one baby. At least she got to experience pregnancy. I didn’t get any of that.” Have you ever caught yourself having those thoughts? And yet, is my friend’s loss any greater or less than mine? And does it really matter?
My thoughts on this crystallized recently when I started thinking about other losses. When someone loses a parent, do we dismiss that loss when they still have a surviving parent? If we lose a good friend, do we feel that loss less because we have other friends? No, we do not. And if we do, shame on us. How can you put a value on someone else’s grief?
And yet we do it all the time. All of us here have dealt with loss. Some of us have experienced childbirth, some of us pregnancy, and some of us have never experienced either. I don’t think that we can weigh one type of loss against another and say that one is worse or another is easier, because “at least she got experience [fill in the blank].”
Loss is loss, and it’s always painful. We’re all in this together, whatever our circumstances.
And now I think I’ll call my friend.
Photo courtesy: Business and Finance
By Jane G.
Adi Roche was born in Clonmel, County Tipperary, in 1957. She is a campaigner for peace, humanitarian aid and education. She was working as a volunteer with the Irish Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament in 1991, when she received a fax message from Belarus, a country ravaged by the effects of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster of 1986. This message, which was to change the course of her life, simply stated “SOS, for God’s sake, help us get the children out!”. So began her life’s work, to establish Chernobyl Children’s Project International, which since its establishment in Ireland in 1991 has delivered over €80 million in aid to the areas most affected by the Chernobyl nuclear disaster and has brought over 13,000 children to Ireland on rest and recuperation vacations, some for life saving surgery. The organization expanded into the USA in 2001.
For her work with CCPI, Adi has been honored by various awards: the Medal of Francysk Skaryna (by the Belarusian Government), the European Woman Laureate Award, Irish Person of the Year, the European Person of the Year award, The Robert Burns Humanitarian Award in 2002 and the World of Children’s 2010 Health Award. She lives in Cork, with her husband of several years, Sean Dunne. They have no children of their own.
In an interview in Hot Press magazine in 1997, she stated that she had suffered a number of miscarriages in the early years of her marriage. Because she subsequently chose to pursue a career of humanitarian work involving exposure to areas of high level radioactive contamination, and because of the sheer time commitment her work takes up, she and her husbanded decided to remain childfree. In another interview she is quoted as saying ” the day we cannot shed a tear for another human being or feel an emotion about the suffering or the agony of another human being, no matter what part of the world they are in, is the day I think we switch the light off on the planet, because we have lost who we are as a species and we have lost our sense of responsibility of being part of the human family”. A mother not in the conventional sense, but a mother to thousands of children none the less, Adi is the person whom I proudly nominate as an Irish chero.
Jane G is 42 year old Irish woman, who is married and childless not by choice. She lives in County Tipperary with her husband and three cats, and works in the field of finance. She and her husband recently became involved as a host family with the Chernobyl Lifeline Ireland project, an organization which arranges rest and recuperation visits to Ireland for children from disadvantaged areas of Belarus. Read about their life changing experience with their two adorable seven-year-old Belarussian guests here.
I never thought I’d be sitting here defending the Duggars, but here I am.
I realize this is old news, but I keep thinking about the photo that circulated of their miscarried baby. When I first heard about it, I rolled my eyes. That’s my standard response to any news I hear about them. But then I though about it more, and you know what? I get it.
People who’ve never dealt with infertility, loss of a child, or even loss of a dream of motherhood, don’t understand that you never know how you’re going to react to a situation until you’re standing there.
You think you’d never use extreme fertility treatments…until someone tells you it’s the only option left to you. You think you’re a level headed person, who would never become obsessed with motherhood…until you’ve tried month after month after month and no one can tell you why you can’t get pregnant. And you think you’d never take a photo of a miscarried or stillborn baby…until it happens to your child.
There are people who think I’m crazy for the way I became obsessed about having a baby. There are people who say, “why don’t you just adopt?” to anyone who can’t have children of their own. And there are people who are appalled and condemn a woman who treats a miscarried child as if that child had lived.
To those people I say, “Walk a mile in those shoes.” Because you don’t know how you’ll react until it happens to you.
~ "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."
