the girl in the bookstore

(Another kind of "otherhood.")

I was in the bookstore the other day – and that’s saying something because the brick and mortar bookstore in Southern California is going away – but nonetheless, I was in one of the remaining bookstores in Southern California the other day, plopped in one of the chairs and idly flipping through a book I thought I was interested in, which turned out not to be true. 

I glanced up from the book I thought I was interested in and saw a beautiful young woman with Down Syndrome standing five feet in front of me, silently smiling a gap-toothed smile at me.  I smiled back and, without a word, she waved at me and started dancing, just for me, it seemed.  She moved slowly, in fits and starts and jerks – and total abandon.   Her face was not beautiful and yet it was.  Her body was not beautiful and yet it was.  I've seen and known professional dancers and they could train a lifetime and not ever touch the grace and freedom of this lone girl frolicking before me in the history aisle in one random doomed bookstore.  I watched her, amazed, tears suddenly streaming, tears that were equal parts joy and jealousy. 

When was the last time I was that free?  When was I ever?  She knew something I didn’t and it was just an inch beyond my reach, a tick outside my understanding.   She danced in her world and I watched in mine and I knew they weren’t the same but I desperately wanted them to be.  It ended before I wanted it to and when her dance was over, an invisible “on” switch suddenly flicked to off.  She simply hunched over and shuffled away, me staring in her wake, her without a backward glance.  The crack that had opened between our worlds closed without words or warning, leaving me crying in the history aisle, a Korean lady throwing furrowed looks my way.

SUPRA

Latin lesson for the day.  Don’t panic.

The prefix “supra” means “above, over, beyond the limits of, or outside of.”

So based on the usual way life seems to come together, I think these things are true:

Parenting is normal; childlessness is supranormal.

Parenting is typical; childlessness is supratypical.

Parenting is human; childlessness is suprahuman.

If you’re childless, you are not less.  

You are supra.  

You are above, over, beyond the limits of, and, yes, as I’m sure you already know, outside of.

But that’s what makes you supra.  

Some day, maybe more people will understand, but for now, I want you to understand:

You are SUPRA.

the childless christian closet

How did this blog come about?  Well, good question.

I had another blog for about ten years. I stopped blogging there about 18 months ago or so for various reasons, some of which I understand and some of which I don’t, honestly.  Because of that, I feel a little surprised to be here with this new blog.

But sometimes, I come to these places in life where I believe God is asking me quite pointedly to do something and it’s usually something that stretches me way past my comfort zone. (Not “usually" -- "always.”) This is one of those times and, honestly,  it scares the bejesus outta me, but that doesn’t mean I won’t do it.  Let me further whine that in addition to being scared, I’m also unhappy because stuff like this makes me sound insane and nobody likes that, but I’m not asking anyone else to believe the Lord asks them to do things. I’m just asking them to believe that I  believe it. Make sense?

No? Okay, then. Moving on.

Now while I do believe that, when I tell you I’ve wrestled with this and fought against it for over a year, I ain’t kidding. We’re talking literal tears and sleepless nights and generalized angst about it all and I thought I was done with angst when I graduated high school.

I did not (and basically do not) want to do this.

Because, essentially, I’m being asked to “come out of the closet” as a childless Christian woman on this new blog. As myself, as me, to people – in general. And I’d rather hide, be anonymous, tell only a select group of people.

I don’t always feel certain about what I know in life, but there is one thing I know I know and it’s the one thing I can’t pretend I don’t know anymore:

There’s a childless closet in Christian culture and it’s deep and dark and suffocating and soul-sucking. Anyone who doesn’t believe me probably isn’t a childless person in the church.

(There’s a childless closet in secular culture too, but the topic is slowly starting to be addressed. Why secular culture is always ahead of Christian culture on necessary redemptive conversations, I have no idea. We should be in the engine room of redemption not the caboose.)

You know, on any given evening, I can turn on the TV and see a gay character on almost any show. I can see transgendered characters on TV shows now, too. This isn’t an indictment of their presence on TV, merely a statement of fact because I want to make a point here. The one life circumstance I don’t see represented anywhere with any honesty or transparency is infertility and childlessness. I’ve seen fleeting moments of honesty – a 10-second scene from “Julie and Julia” and the montage from “Up” come to mind – but those are split seconds, mere moments. They’re certainly no depiction of a life. Sure, ten years ago or so, Chandler and Monica on “Friends” dealt with infertility but they were given a happy ending with a miracle adoption – not one baby, but two! A boy and a girl! Because real life is just like that, of course.

I mention all of this because it’s time to say the emperor has no clothes. It’s time to call out the massive cultural lacuna we’re all suffering from regarding infertility and childlessness. For my part, I believe that books, TV shows, movies don’t depict these issues because there is so much shame around them that the infertile and childless feel their mouths are sewn shut. The shame keeps them silent, the silence breeds cultural ignorance, and ignorance can't possibly create any honest depictions of the childless life where the childless feel seen as actual human beings.

There is so much shame around it, the culture is having conversations about the homosexual life and the transgendered life -- life circumstances which affect much less of the population -- before it’s even opening the closet on the childless and letting them breathe fresh air again. I’m not saying those conversations shouldn’t be happening. They should. I’m saying this -- because I’ve looked it up using multiple resources: Approximately 1%-3% of the population is gay, lesbian, or bisexual. Approximately .01% to .03% of the population is transgendered.

However, approximately 12%-15% of the adult population suffers from infertility and childlessness.

So it’s certainly not a numbers thing that's driving these conversations. If it were, infertility and childlessness would have been talked about openly long ago. No, I’m convinced the amount of silence on this issue is directly proportional to the amount of shame society heaps upon it. I honestly think it’s one of the last societal taboos and too many people are living the slow death of silent shame on the inside while smiling smiling smiling on the outside.

It’s time to break that off. It’s time to break that off before it breaks any more people. Actually, it’s past time.

And, you know, it’s way past time for the church. Unfortunately, because the church is such family-centric institution, it suffers from the biggest compassion deficit of all on this issue. "Family" and "womanhood" mean very specific, exclusive things in the halls of Christendom and some people are being crushed under the weight of the church's narrow definitions. Sure, some Christians may argue or deny this point, but we need to be asking the childless Christians if they think it’s true. Hey, ask childless Christians if they’re even going to a church and if they’re not, ask them why. I bet I can tell you what their answer would be.

It's time for the church to reassess how it treats and sees the childless in its ranks.

We need you to show us the face of Jesus, not the wrong side of a door.

And I guess I’ve got some things to say about that. Part of me really really doesn’t want to "come out of the childless Christian closet" because it’s pretty scary, but the rest of me feels I have no choice anymore. As much as I'd rather just keep muttering to myself while doing the dishes, sad to say, that no longer seems to be the task at hand.

So here we are. 

With this blog. 

I hope the things I’ll write here can help the childless feel seen and less alone.  I hope the things I’ll write here can help parents grow in understanding and empathy for this particular road less traveled. I hope the things I'll write here can help, in some small way, to build bridges between parents and the childless.

We’re not all on the same road in life, but we all need our roads to be acknowledged.

Can we do that here?

 

mourn with those who mourn

It’s the week of Mother’s Day and I’m going to say something you’re probably not supposed to say. 

Mother’s Day is not a completely happy sunny holiday. 

I realize it sounds suspect and self-serving to say this – and it probably is – given my status as a non-mom, but Mother’s Day is not a day without shadow and I think we should own that. There is a lot of pain for a lot of women on this day – single women, childless women, women who’ve lost a mom, women who’ve lost a child, women with a bad relationship with their moms. When we don’t own the truth of the cloudiness of this day, I think we lessen our capacity for empathy. 

Sometimes I wonder if the combined pain of the day outweighs the combined joy of the day. 

And sometimes I wonder this, too: 

Are there moms who ever consider not celebrating Mother’s Day? Moms who would ever consider a “fast” from the day, so to speak? 

Don’t throw your tomatoes yet. Get them ready, sure, but bear with me for a moment. 

You know, part of why I have no interest in celebrating Valentine's Day, for instance, is that it bothers me to think of the people for whom the day causes pain. I know people for whom that day causes pain. I'm sure we all do. They feel their separateness from the rest of society on that day most especially and, well, I guess I feel like I'm dancing in the house of mourning if I celebrate the day. I just can't do it. 

There's a biblical concept of "rejoicing with those who rejoice and mourning with those who mourn" which I think has validity whether you’re a Bible believer or not, and I guess I find myself wondering when -- apart from obligatory funerals -- do we mourn with those who mourn their less-obvious but no less life-altering losses and lacks and “otherhood”? When do we acknowledge the lifelong pain of those who live on the fringes of mainstream society? When do we mourn with the single person, the childless person, the gay person? When do we do that? Have we ever sat with someone who's an "other" by mainstream societal standards -- that single person, childless person, gay person, for instance -- and said, "Tell me what it's like to be you. Tell me what the rest of the world doesn't know about walking your particular road. I want to understand your life and your pain better. I want to have more empathy." 

If someone did that to me, sat me down and said those things instead of treating childlessness like poison and increasing the shame around it, it would make all the difference for me, so perhaps it would for other people who live their lives in “otherhood” too. Maybe they would feel seen, validated, and valuable and not solely defined by their lack or the ways they aren't like the majority of the mainstream world. 

I apologize if I’m rattling anyone’s cage. This week just always gets me contemplative. And, yes, sad. Right now, this moment as I write, is hard. Yesterday was bad and it's spilling over into today and I'm just struggling with the sorrow it all brings up. 

I always find myself thinking this week of a piece I read once about Mother's Day and how the church handles it, and I remember how that comment thread was one of the nastiest, bloodiest discussions between "sisters in Christ" I've ever seen. I remember any number of moms on that thread who jumped down the throats of the non-moms, declaring, "You're supposed to rejoice with those who rejoice!!!!" as the reason for the church to make a big fuss over moms on Mother's Day. 

But can I tell you something, moms? When we non-moms play with your kids, we're rejoicing with those who rejoice. When we come to your kids' games, parties, plays, we're rejoicing with those who rejoice. When we snuggle and cuddle with your kids, we're rejoicing with those who rejoice. When we laugh and smile and love on your kids, saving our tears for the car, we're rejoicing with those who rejoice. 

It costs us something. 

Sometimes, it costs us everything. 

And it makes me wonder: Are there moms who might contemplate a way they can "mourn with those who mourn" like many women do on this particular day? Maybe it doesn't have to be a Mother's Day "fast," but, to my mind, "mourning with those who mourn" requires presence -- being there for that person in person -- and a willingness to expand our hearts in understanding and empathy. 

It means saying "I see you. You're not invisible. You're valuable." 

It means everything.

on being seen

Sometimes, you can remember the simplest things someone says to you for the rest of your life.

I remember two sentences my dad said to me at lunch several years ago.

And I will remember them for the rest of my life.

At that time, My Beloved and I, having undergone past failed fertility treatments, began a brand new series, certain that these finally would work. They did not. Each month felt like a death that kept on dying. Hope and crushing, hope and crushing. I don’t even know the person I was then. I felt utterly lost to myself. My family never spoke of it because there are things considered too shameful to mention, and this fell under that heading. So they simply didn’t speak of it. MB and I wandered, shattered, on the fringes of normal life. And the heavy, lingering sorrow that had stolen my hopes seemed to have taken my voice with it, too. I was mute. I could not give voice to the shame, breathe out what was being carefully ignored. MB and I were bereft and broken and hopeless.

In the midst of our failed treatments, my sister got pregnant. She had two boys and had always longed for a girl. So had I, secretly.

And … a girl it was.

I remember the day my sister called to tell me she was having a girl. I heard her voice on the answering machine and somehow knew exactly why she was calling, exactly what she was going to say, and I could not bring myself to pick up the phone. I stood inches from it, my hand outstretched but paused in midair. From where I was, far from her, I could see her joy; I could see it. The very air swirled pink and perfect with the news of a girl. And I, with my selfish sorrow and small heart, sank to the floor and cried and cried, the ugly cry that no one but God ever sees you cry.

Around this time, my longtime bachelor brother finally got engaged. There were echoing choruses of “Hallelujah!” all around at this news. Even I could manage that one. My family fairly exploded with the sheer elation of it all. A new baby girl, a wedding in the works. It was like having a whole year of Christmas where every gift is perfect; a whole year of parties with everyone you like and no one you don’t.

But My Beloved and I still went, quietly, to our treatments. And still, quietly, they failed. I was breaking in two from the overwhelming weight of joy and sorrow.

One day that year, my dad called to invite me to lunch. We met at Marie Callendar’s because he likes Marie Callendar’s and when he’s at Marie Callendar’s, he likes to order soup, which he did.

As we chitchatted about this and that, I was growing more and more nervous. He was working up to say something, I could tell, but I hadn’t the faintest idea what it would be. He’s not the demonstrative type. Emotions are private, you see.

He cleared his throat several times, in that compulsive way he has. I knew then he was nervous, too. Finally, he looked at me with those dark blue-grey eyes and said:

“I know your brother’s and sister’s happiness must be breaking your heart.”

I couldn’t breathe. I had ordered soup, too, in silent solidarity, and saw my tears dropping onto its surface. Then with a choked voice I’d never quite heard before, he whispered:

“I’m so sorry, honey.”

And I was gone. I began to shake. Tears streamed onto the table; heads around us turned. I was quiet, but I was just gone. My father, who had never, ever spoken to me about it, understood.

He understood.

And he had said all he would. He mentioned it once and never again. Still, in that singular moment, I no longer felt invisible. I was seen. I was seen. I felt warm and alive and understood by someone I'd been sure did not, could not, understand.

I know they were just two sentences spoken softly over bowls of steaming soup, but they were among the best things my dad has ever said to me.

I was less broken for hearing them.

voices of the childless

This will be hard to read.  I'm admitting that up front.  If you don't want to be bummed then click away.  But if by chance, you want to grow in understanding, empathy, and compassion for the childless people around you, I encourage you to read further.

A statistic:  Infertility and childlessness affects as many couples as breast cancer does women.  1 in 8 couples.  

1 in 8.

If you don't know any childless people now, you will.  It may be end up being you.  It may be a son, a daughter, a sister, a brother, a friend.  I'm not saying that to wish it on anyone, I'm simply saying it to say that, some day, you will know someone who is childless and, if you love them, you will need (and hopefully want) to try to understand their road.

And if you try, just try, I can guarantee that you will make a misunderstood life feel less lonely and less invisible.  If you try, they'll be forever grateful and feel forever safe in your presence.  If you try, they'll know they're loved and valued even if their lives don't look like yours.  If you try, they'll know they're not "less," but a uniquely created child of God, just like you. 

I want to try to foster that understanding, so with that in mind,  you're about to hear the voices of the childless.  These are anonymous comments I've collected from various sites, blogs, and even emails I've received over the years and I'm posting a few of them here -- just a few.  I could post many more, but how much sorrow can one post take?  

None of these comments are my own, but, rather, the voices of many childless around the world.  

They are raw, open, and honest.  

They are snapshots of the childless life.  (Italics are mine for emphasis.)

~ The urge and desire to have children is as strong as the pangs of hunger.

 

~ I would not wish infertility on my most loathed enemy.

~ I feel a lot of panic when I think how to fill my time and to do something worthwhile. Is there a way to use this sadness?

~ Sometimes infertility is the death blow to a marriage that might have had a chance otherwise. 

~ IF there was a word to describe the pain of years of infertility, IF there was a word to express the agony of everyone else in your life having babies and doting over their beautiful children, it certainly could never be expressed by using the word jealous. I believe there is a certain amount of envy, yes, but mostly -- Longing, Sorrow, Pain, Grief.

~ I thank God for my life every day but when I laugh, laugh with me and when I cry, cry with me.

~ It is a grieving process … every cycle … every month, another disappointment. I am surprised any couples make it through this at all. 

~ Still, just when I think I’m utterly detached from the idea moving forward toward other goals, something will cross my path–a pregnant woman, a family together at a restaurant, even an elderly woman going to lunch with her grandkids–and my old wounds rip open again. It’s not every time, just random, unexpected moments. 

~ Here’s the deal: We cannot get pregnant without medical intervention. We are, by all medical definitions, infertile. In order for me to get pregnant like "Sarah in the Bible," it would take a miracle, either of the man-made-medical type or the religious type. Since neither you nor I can tell Him what to do, we are deciding whether to follow the medical path or to pursue adoption. ‘Kay? Now then, every time you imply that somehow I will magically get pregnant, you are dismissing my pain and also implying that we are missing something. Can I just tell you how many people have poked and prodded me and hubby with medical devices of various types and purposes? How many times we have cried over numbers on a damn page, stared at web forums until our eyelids burned looking for the path forward, and been sick to our stomachs before going to one more frickin’ meeting with one more frickin’ doctor to hear the same message: ‘It ain’t happening’? Stop. You need to stop and listen to what I am saying to you: We are infertile. You have an infertile daughter.  You have an infertile son.  It hurts like hell, and every time you are dismissive or pretend that this isn’t real, you are causing me pain. I worry that you won’t love our child as much because you seem to not acknowledge the reality of the situation. That makes it harder for us to move forward too. Please stop. Please start saying, ‘I’m so sorry you are going through this.’ Say, ‘I wish I could take the pain away.’ Say, ‘I can’t understand how this hurts for you, but I do understand that it does. It hurts for me too because your pain is so great.’ Say, ‘We are a family, and I am here to listen.’ Say, ‘Whatever path forward you choose, we are here for you.’ Say, ‘I say these things because it’s hard for me to hear that you are facing this situation. I’m also upset that our grandchildren may come into the family differently than I imagined, but in the end, we just want you to be happy, and we support you.’ Say, ‘I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m listening, and I support you and love you.'"  Or,  you know,  something like that.

~ Surely there is more to me than “You know, Kate and her husband, that couple that can’t have kids.” Will I be fifty and still wondering what if?

~ It’s when I don’t feel like I’m “producing” anything spectacular that I fall prey to the childless blues the most.

~ I found your article while googling “the meaning of life without kids.”

~ It is emotionally, psychologically, physically and economically demanding. It is isolating and dehumanizing … you continue because to you it is worth it, worth everything …. and then you’re told no more, it can’t be done.

~ I feel your pain, Jennifer. I know you are hurting. I know you are angry. I remember being quite pissed one day when my mother was trying to be positive. I tried to explain the feeling to her, "Mom, I'll never know what it feels like to labor or breastfeed."  She didn't get it.  I almost took my life that night.

~  I am a married, infertile, childless, mid-40's woman who feels so left out at church. I have grown up in church, been in leadership of some kind, including youth ministry, for most of my life. It is difficult to be left out, to hear comments that 'I wouldn't understand because I don't have kids' & to be treated like I am less of a person because I don't have children. I am still a woman, I love kids, I have interests & abilities that God gave me, I can be a part of a conversation.  I love God, but I have been definitely pushed out of the women's circles for a number of years. It is difficult & painful. It has caused a lot of self-doubt, a lot of tears, and tremendous loneliness. I get continuous questions of why didn't you adopt, which, we were in process and the mom (a relative) changed her mind, but really does it matter?? Why is it anyone else's business?? I am not lonely because I don't have children. I have accepted that and am fine with it. I am lonely because so many people in and out of the church, ostracize the childless. I still have plenty to offer you as a friend, a sister in Christ, and a woman. I would have thought by this time in my life that people would have been different, but they aren't. My husband and I still are not included in things because the people with kids are getting together. Did you ever think to ask us, or anyone else who is single/childless/etc. if we would like to join you?  

~  I went to a church for a while that honored all women on Mother's Day. The pastor said, "Even if women don't have children, they are still involved in some child's life either as an aunt, a children or youth leader, a teacher of some kind to someone, a friend to a neighbor kid, or a sister. They have value. Don't treat them as if they don't." Unfortunately, most of the women in the church did not hear what he said, but it was great that he said that and gave worth to each woman there.

~  One lady in a church we were at very briefly said to my husband that she understood and struggled with infertility as well, so if we ever needed to talk, she was available. First thing, my husband didn't even talk to her about our childlessness; she made her own assumptions. Second, she had four of her own kids  ..... she had wanted six ……

 

~  Most of the time, I have peace over the fact that God chose for us to not have kids, (which people don't understand when I say that because they are sure God didn't choose that for us) but occasionally, it is still very painful to be so ostracized by others. I know I belong to Christ and I am precious to Him. I know my worth is in Him. But sometimes, on my low days, I would like to be treated like a woman who has worth that other people can see.

 

~ (From a woman with cancer) The infertility hurts worse than dealing with the cancer.

~ The dashing of a lifelong desire for motherhood -- I lament it.  I lament it deep into my soul, from now to my grave and beyond.