No Kidding in NZ

Every Saturday we get the local newspaper. I know, we're dinosaurs. But we have a digital subscription that gives us a hard copy once a week. I like the puzzles in the Saturday paper, and it's quite nice for a change to linger over the newspaper with a cup of tea, so I've been reluctant to let it go. 

The last year or two, I've found myself skimming over the death notices that mostly appear on Saturdays. I realised I'm at the age where people I know are either losing their parents, or perhaps older bosses and colleagues are dying themselves. But I find it frustrating, because the only thing ever mentioned are their familial relationships. 

There's nothing identifying these people except family. When I forget names, or names are common, I'm not sure if this was the person I knew or not. No mention of their years of diplomatic service, or their volunteer work, of the books they loved or gardens they nurtured or clubs they belonged to. I understand all these things might be mentioned in an obituary, but who goes on line to find them, if they are even written? They're never in the newspapers unless the deceased was a public figure. Yet each person mentioned - whether they have long lists of loved ones and descendants or not - was so much more than their families. And we all know that families aren't perfect. It's impossible to tell if they were loving or largely estranged, if the children and grandchildren mentioned phoned regularly or cared enough to visit or care for their elderly relatives. That's just how people are summed up.

It strikes me as being very one-dimensional, and quite sad. In my own parents' notices, I didn't really think beyond the traditional either, so I'm not blaming others for doing the same. Yet my mother had a dear friend she would miss who deserved a mention, the friend keeping my mother company for the 11 years she survived without my father. Both my parents had a wide circle of acquaintances, both from the days living in a rural district and from their activities in their local communities, whether through school, or their own sporting and social activities, or through ours. My mother was a rifle shooter, and marched, she coached and managed netball teams, and was secretary of the school committee. My father belonged to other community groups, volunteering his time, and in his younger days tossed cabers and rode bulls, putting that aside for golf as he aged. They were farmers for years. All these things made them who they were, as much as being children, siblings, parents, aunt and uncle, grandparents, and great-grandparents. 

That's why I am able now to feel more comfortable about being childless, simply because I know it is only a part of me. Just as my friends who are parents are much more than that too. (And this is especially obvious as those children grow up and leave home and sometimes leave the country.) Those who might be tempted to distil my life down to simply being childless are showing their own limitations and lack of imagination. I feel sorry for them. I may be childless, but I am also much* more. So are you. I'm not kidding.

* see my 2012 post Who I Am

What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. A lot of people trot this out to either compliment people who are going through something tough, or give them encouragement or comfort that they can get through it. However, I know a lot of people really struggle with this sentiment, for several reasons.

How can it be seen as a compliment, when we have had no choice but to get through our infertility, loss, grief, or another life event (loss of a partner/relationship, serious illness, etc)? Not having a choice is not something to be praised! We hate this. Who wants to be stronger if we have to go through these traumatic and/or distressing events? It seems to us terribly unfair, but here the speaker is lauding the fact.

It feels as if the speaker doesn’t want to deal with the realities of the situation. That by making such a sweeping statement, they are in fact denying the emotions felt by the person experiencing them. It feels awfully dismissive of their experiences and emotions. When it is said to an infertility/loss patient, we feel as if the speaker doesn’t care, that they don’t want to understand what we are actually going through, and that they can’t really handle the idea that bad things happen for no reason. It feels as if they don’t want to acknowledge the loss that we might be feeling, and don’t even want to begin to try, or to help. It can be very hurtful.

It's not something I’ve ever said to anyone. (I hope!) However, it IS something that is fine to say to ourselves. Eventually. I know I’ve felt that I have come out of infertility and loss stronger than when I began. I think that is inevitable. I feel better able to cope with difficult situations, better able to deal with my own emotions, and those of others. I do feel stronger. But it took time. And it wouldn’t have been helpful when I was in the thick of my grief, my loss, or when I was still clinging on to hope. Because all it tells me is that the person saying this doesn’t really understand, or want to try. It means they don’t consider the fact that whatever it is might not kill you, but it might leave you maimed, scarred, damaged.

A key thing that came out of my own infertility/loss/childlessness experience is that at times I do feel more vulnerable, weaker, less confident than I did before. The damage and scars are still there, though they might not hurt as much these days. And so I am much more aware of my own vulnerabilities, of my mortality, of all the things that can go wrong. That makes me feel weaker, not stronger. After all, the old saying “ignorance is bliss” can be very true. (We probably all remember being ignorant about the risks and realities of infertility, don’t we?) Knowledge doesn’t always bring strength. It can bring fear, hesitance, and a lack of self-confidence. This is all very natural. I see it in myself.

However, at the same time, knowing all this can make me feel stronger, because I am more prepared for things to go wrong. It makes me stronger because, ultimately, I know I can be okay regardless of what I will go through. Even when I know that the experience itself might leave me feeling very vulnerable, distressed, hopeless, afraid – you name it. I’m not blind to the feelings that difficult experiences bring. I’m less afraid of them these days, because they are more familiar to me. I understand I can get through them. I know that I can still find joy, that I can feel delight in life and friends and family and nature, that happiness can return. Yes, there’s a strength in that. 

Indeed, the many gifts of infertility" that I have identified in my No Kidding series here have made me a different, hopefully better, person. Stronger? Perhaps. Maybe that strength was always there. Maybe it is already there in all of us, and only traumatic events bring it out when it is absolutely necessary. But is trauma a reasonable cost of seeing this strength?

Strength, compassion, awareness and acceptance of our emotions might be the byproducts of our experiences. This all comes at a price. One that we would like to be recognised. So it would still be a brave or foolhardy person who would say to me that “what didn’t kill me made me stronger.”

We often bemoan the fact of having different lives from our friends with kids. But you get to an age - usually in your 50s or 60s, but sometimes earlier - when you friends’ and families’ children have left home and are living their own lives. And then we have a lot more in common with our friends. I’ve been very lucky that one of my best friends had children relatively young, and so she’s been free for fun for a long time! But not everyone has this, and I know it can be really hard.

Still, eventually it will come to us all. I had a reminder of this the other night, at a barbecue with old friends. Their kids flew the nest quite some time ago, but due to their overseas travel (living there) we haven’t socialised very much in recent years. They noted that they’re going to take a break in February, once all the kids are back at school, but the summer is still in full fling. Which is exactly what we are considering. They don’t have grandkids (yet), their children are independent, capable adults, and – like us – they are free and easy right now. Their kids hardly came up in conversation (thankfully, my husband remembered to ask after them!), not because we’re not interested, but because they’re not part of their day-to-day lives now. They’re not childless, and their children are still in the country both as supports and potentially needed support. But day-to-day their lives are as a couple, not as parents. Just like ours. 

I guess I’m saying this just to give some hope to those of you who aren’t here yet. You get your friends back – some sooner than later. And that makes you feel as if your network is that much wider.

The internet has been abuzz discussing Jennifer Aniston's comments about infertility and IVF the last week or so. There is so much good writing about it, I hope you can find it and read it all. Some of it is included in my blogroll here. But another helpful post here by Loribeth at The Road Less Travelled has summarised it, along with other No Kidding writing, including from our much loved Jess. Thanks, Loribeth!

A friend shared the Aniston article on social media, and there was a comment there that perhaps explains why I don't talk much on social media about living a No Kidding life. The person commented that a sports announcer had said publicly that she had several unsuccessful IVFs, but was still trying. The commenter said that she feels bad every time she sees her. She commented that she Aniston's disclosure resonated better with her, because she talked about wanting kids, not getting them, but that her life is good without them.

It was the pity felt by the commenter that struck me. The commenter was feeling this empathetically, as she is in the same situation. But if she feels it, then obviously others (ie parents ) might feel that too. And we all know that pity is the last think any of us want! Empathy yes, but pity? No!

It is important that talking about being childless not by choice is normalised. That people know that IVF fails more often than it works. That it is recognised that this is a possibility or even a probability, and that that is normal.That it is horrible to live with. But that it is not a sentence for a sad or lonely life. That life can and will be good. The more this is spoken about as normal, the better. That way, maybe we wouldn't feel that it is quite so awful for the world to know? And maybe the world would learn to react more sensitively? Or to simply accept that not everyone will get the children they want? To stop the pressure on women to procreate, because they don't know what is going on behind the scenes. Wouldn't that be wonderful?