Trigger warnings: child loss, miscarriage
My younger self wanted (in fact, expected) to do her GCSEs and A-levels, go to uni, get a good job, get married and bring up children. That was normal, and normal was fine.
Younger me wanted a boy and a girl and had already picked their names, though their genders didn’t matter – just that they were happy, healthy, had the world at their feet and knew how much they were loved.
But something is missing. I don’t have children because we couldn’t, and now it’s too late.
That hangs over me like a dark cloud every single day. I feel sad that I was unable to love my children. To guide, cuddle and care for them. To spend joyful Christmases, birthdays and holidays with them. To give them opportunities to flourish and learn. To watch them grow into perfect adults. I longed for all of that dearly.
I’m often the only mid-40s woman in the room without children so I’m somewhat of a rarity, but I feel it’s time to ask why people can’t behave more sensitively.
Here’s an example. I was recently in a breakout room at an online networking event. The group were, understandably, proudly talking about their offspring’s achievements and I joined in their celebrations as they were lovely to hear about and very well deserved. I wasn’t jealous. I was genuinely pleased for them, and it was an appropriate time and place to chat about their children if they so wished. Attention soon turned to me and one of the ladies asked me how old my children were.
Though I know no harm was meant, my heart sank and my eyes filled with tears.
I explained that I didn’t have any children and there were shocked faces all around. I felt angry at the assumption that I was a mum. What if I was traumatised from suffering miscarriages or I’d lost my only child in a tragic accident or to an illness and I didn’t want to talk about it?
Shocked looks became sympathetic, and I was probed further by the Zoom room full of well-meaning, but rather nosy, strangers. I found myself telling them about my dealings with GPs, hospitals, tests, difficult decisions, tricky conversations and more. Before I knew it, I had felt pressured into divulging details I really didn’t want to because I panicked and couldn’t think of what else to say. The floodgates had opened and out it all poured. I felt silly. Everyone soon began shuffling uncomfortably in their seats, so the conversation was swiftly moved on.
The truth is, after years of ‘trying’ and failing, I finally managed to convince my OH that we needed medical intervention. Eventually, we were told that the possible answer to our problem was IVF but due to the waiting list by the time I got close to the top I would have been too old to have it funded by the NHS. So we saved hard, both mindful that there was only a slim chance that it would work and it was more than our emotions we were investing.
I spoke to close friends of mine who had children this way and felt as prepared as I was ever going to be for what was to come. I was scared but determined to do everything I could to make it a success. We finally had a plan!
We were about to begin treatment when the pandemic hit. Everything was, understandably but heartbreakingly, cancelled.
It’s now too late to try IVF as I’m too old for it to have any chance of working at all. I have a good life and a lot to be grateful for, but I’m just not the sort of person that miracles happen to. I can’t put myself through it if there is not even the slightest chance it will work and that’s what is stopping me. There isn’t even the faintest glimmer of hope. So, that’s that, except:
I get asked ALL THE TIME whether I wanted children. Yes. Yes, I did, very much.
I get asked ALL THE TIME why I didn’t have children. I explain we weren’t able to.
I get asked ALL THE TIME who will look after me when I grow old. Truthfully, that’s the question which worries me most of all.
I fear for my future and the likelihood of being alone with nobody to look after me as I grow older, as healthcare in the country deteriorates further and further each coming year. What if I end up in a home and have no visitors? What if I lose mental capacity and can’t explain myself, control my money or make my own decisions? Will I die alone? Who will sort through my precious things when I’m gone? Will I have a funeral?
People ask me questions about my lack of children as though I had never considered old age before. Of course I have, and I do so more often than you can imagine.
There are a few reasons why a woman might appear childless. There are those who wanted to have a family but couldn’t, those who didn’t want children at all, mums who are bereaved and those who no longer have contact with their children for whatever reason.
Whichever category you fall into, I’m sure I’m not alone in saying that being asked by people who see you as being somewhat abnormal for not being a mum is tiresome and so very, very upsetting.
Appreciate please that they may be scared for what’s ahead, distressed by what they’ve been through, angry at themselves for not acknowledging there was a problem earlier or feeling resentful that their only chance to be a mum was taken by covid. They may even be terrified to meet new people or go to new places in case the question is asked.
I’m never wallowing in self-pity or spite. I’ve accepted my situation. I’m always on guard to be asked about my lack of family, but never quite prepared because I can’t be.
So, my plea to you is to stop asking childless women why they didn’t have children because there will never be a good time, place or way to ask why someone isn’t a mum. Ever.