One of the workers at the care home where Fred lives now has been reading my blog and finding it pertinent to her situation. Her situation is the opposite of ours. She's 45 and has two sons. Recently divorced and stop-traffic gorgeous, she finds herself dating younger men or even men her own age who still want to have children. She believes she could get pregnant but worries about the risks of pregnancy so late in life. Plus, she has done the math. She'd be over 50 when the child started kindergarten, in her 60s when he graduated from high school, in her 70s when he finished college and/or married and had children . . . No. She doesn't want to do that. Nor does she want to cheat her dates out of something they really want. So, she says, "I gently set them free."
She wanted to know how I came to be childless. Fred was sitting there with me as I explained that I had married two husbands who wouldn't or couldn't father my children. "I was one of them," Fred piped up. She turned to me. "How old were you when you got married?" "33." And then she gave Fred such a look, a look that said, You dog, you bastard, how could you do that to her? I wanted to jump up and hug her.
Where was she when I was 33?
Thursday, June 18, 2009
You're on your own
It has been almost a month since I blogged here, so I'm doing it twice today. I have been in the midst of finding a new place for my husband, who has Alzheimer's. The home where he had been staying was not working out. He was so miserable he tried to run away. So now, with help from a great organization called A Place for Mom, I have moved him to Timberwood Court in Albany Oregon. It's a lot farther from home, but a much better place.
What does this have to do with childlessness? Mainly that I wouldn't have been doing all this alone if I had children or if his children really understood how hard this is. There's the physical part of it: Fred's room came unfurnished, so I had to buy furniture and get it to Albany. I carried a carload of stuff when we moved and last week, I single-handledly shoved two heavy easy chairs into the back of the car and drove them over. This week I'm getting a phone hooked up. I'm dealing with insurance and doctors and staggering bills. Perhaps worst is the strain of making all these decisions on my own. Fred can't help anymore, and no one else is here.
If you're considering a marriage without children, especially to a much older man, think about the possibility that he will get sick and suddenly you'll be handling everything alone.
What does this have to do with childlessness? Mainly that I wouldn't have been doing all this alone if I had children or if his children really understood how hard this is. There's the physical part of it: Fred's room came unfurnished, so I had to buy furniture and get it to Albany. I carried a carload of stuff when we moved and last week, I single-handledly shoved two heavy easy chairs into the back of the car and drove them over. This week I'm getting a phone hooked up. I'm dealing with insurance and doctors and staggering bills. Perhaps worst is the strain of making all these decisions on my own. Fred can't help anymore, and no one else is here.
If you're considering a marriage without children, especially to a much older man, think about the possibility that he will get sick and suddenly you'll be handling everything alone.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
We have a Google group now
I don't know why I didn't do this a long time ago, but I have set up a "Childless by Marriage" Google group. There's not much in it right now, but judging by the number of e-mails I get on this topic, it will grow quickly. Access the group at http://groups.google.com/group/childless-by-marriage. Come one and all. We have a lot to share.
As you probably know, I'm a writer working on a book and articles about childlessness, but I promise I will never quote you without asking for your permission, so have at it.
As you probably know, I'm a writer working on a book and articles about childlessness, but I promise I will never quote you without asking for your permission, so have at it.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Share childless feelings in Exhale zine
My Google alerts brought me to an interesting zine called "Exhale," which is subtitled "A literary magazine for intelligent people who have lost a baby, or can't figure out how to make one in the first place." You can get it in print or online. My friend Tiffany Lee Brown won an award from Exhale for her piece "The Kitchen Sink." It's available online and definitely worth a read.
Bravo, Tiffany.
I also discovered an interesting article called "The Men Who are Desperate for Kids," published April 19 in the UK's TimesOnline. So often, we only look at the woman's viewpoint, but men have strong feelings about childlessness, too. They may not show it, for fearing of appearing "soft," but writer Nirpal Dhaiwal tells how men who wanted children and don't have them can feel the loss just as much as woman can.
As all the advertising media won't let us forget, Sunday is Mother's Day. I'm planning to duck and cover till it's over. Someone already wished me a happy Mother's Day yesterday. I just said "thank you" and moved on. I didn't have the energy to set them straight.
Happy whatever, my friends.
Bravo, Tiffany.
I also discovered an interesting article called "The Men Who are Desperate for Kids," published April 19 in the UK's TimesOnline. So often, we only look at the woman's viewpoint, but men have strong feelings about childlessness, too. They may not show it, for fearing of appearing "soft," but writer Nirpal Dhaiwal tells how men who wanted children and don't have them can feel the loss just as much as woman can.
As all the advertising media won't let us forget, Sunday is Mother's Day. I'm planning to duck and cover till it's over. Someone already wished me a happy Mother's Day yesterday. I just said "thank you" and moved on. I didn't have the energy to set them straight.
Happy whatever, my friends.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Running Free
Following up on yesterday's post, I've noticed something interesting. Today, with my father and brother gone back home, I'm feeling amazingly freer and younger than I did when they were here. I danced to regae music last night, I had cake for lunch today, and just now I was outside running with the dogs. It felt good. Not having anyone to please or to care for can be awfully lonely, but it is also freeing. You become ageless, not pigeonholed into the role of daughter, mother, grandmother, or wife, just yourself, running in the unmowed grass, the breeze blowing your hair around and making the wind chimes sing.
There's a lot one can regret about not having children. God knows I have shed an ocean of tears, but there are advantages, too. As the Mother's Day ads threaten to drown us in our childlessness, try to remember the good parts. If there's a mother in your life, celebrate her. If not, just tune out the ads and go run with the dogs.
There's a lot one can regret about not having children. God knows I have shed an ocean of tears, but there are advantages, too. As the Mother's Day ads threaten to drown us in our childlessness, try to remember the good parts. If there's a mother in your life, celebrate her. If not, just tune out the ads and go run with the dogs.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Always the daughter, never the mother
The men in my family have been visiting. They put me right back in the role of the daughter. My brother insists on driving. My father insists on paying for my meals. I'm physically much smaller and more agile than they are, and I'm riding in the back seat again, wishing I had my MP3 to entertain myself. The one time I jump ahead to the cashier, at the air museum, my father drops 20-dollar bills on my table that night to reimburse me. To them, I'm the one having financial trouble, husband trouble and emotional trouble, so they assert their authority trying to straighten me out, not letting me explain how I'm taking care of things in my own way.
Being a wife and mother makes you look like an adult to the rest of the world. With Fred in the care home and no children of my own, I'm always the weird kid, not Mom, not Grandma. In the eyes of my family, I'll never move up into that "we're all adults with kids" role.
Do you ever feel that way?
Being a wife and mother makes you look like an adult to the rest of the world. With Fred in the care home and no children of my own, I'm always the weird kid, not Mom, not Grandma. In the eyes of my family, I'll never move up into that "we're all adults with kids" role.
Do you ever feel that way?
Monday, April 20, 2009
Childless at the funeral
If you want to feel alone, attend a funeral with your widowed father. The husband is in a care home and he has virtually no family, except his children. They didn’t know the deceased, my 100-year-old Great-Aunt Edna, anyway. Cousins your age are accompanied by their grown children, talking about an upcoming wedding, to which you have not been invited.
You look up at the front row and see Virginia, 92-year-old sister of the deceased. She is wearing a neck brace and hiding feeding tubes under her clothes, reminders of a near-fatal fall a few months ago. As everyone visits after the formal rites, there are times when she sits there alone. I hasten to keep her company. Virginia never married nor had children. Her sister Edna was widowed for 44 years, and she never had children either. They were each other's partners in life.
The priest, Father "Jo-Jo", says Edna, though childless, adopted her husband's family, became the matriarch, etc. That's true, but still the church is troublingly empty. You know that this 100-year-old woman, who outlived most of her friends, could have had children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and maybe even great-great grandchildren who would have filled the sanctuary with their own spouses and children. But no. So many seats are empty.
In contrast, the priest at my mother's memorial service kept referring to her as Mother Elaine. At least with Aunt Edna, he spoke at length about the things she had done, her volunteer work and her travels, her full life. But Mom had more people.
I can see the generations slicing off. We're coming closer to mine all the time. I have one niece and nephew to whom I feel close and a bunch of cousins I'm starting to talk to on Facebook. I do have good friends, but sometimes I feel awfully alone. When I commented that I would be alone when I was old and dying, my remaining aunt-by-marriage grabbed my arm and fiercely insisted that that was not true, that people care. Yes, but they die and they get busy. If I'm still living in Oregon, we'd better reserve the little chapel.
If my husband was around, it would be different, wouldn't it? And didn't I trade it all for him? It's a gamble we women who are childless by marriage take.
The most comfortable moment of the trip: the day after the funeral, sitting on the ground in the sun next to the grave where the workmen had tossed the pink bouquets over a layer of gravel in the not-quite-filled opening. I could finally breathe. And I didn't feel so damned alone.
You look up at the front row and see Virginia, 92-year-old sister of the deceased. She is wearing a neck brace and hiding feeding tubes under her clothes, reminders of a near-fatal fall a few months ago. As everyone visits after the formal rites, there are times when she sits there alone. I hasten to keep her company. Virginia never married nor had children. Her sister Edna was widowed for 44 years, and she never had children either. They were each other's partners in life.
The priest, Father "Jo-Jo", says Edna, though childless, adopted her husband's family, became the matriarch, etc. That's true, but still the church is troublingly empty. You know that this 100-year-old woman, who outlived most of her friends, could have had children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and maybe even great-great grandchildren who would have filled the sanctuary with their own spouses and children. But no. So many seats are empty.
In contrast, the priest at my mother's memorial service kept referring to her as Mother Elaine. At least with Aunt Edna, he spoke at length about the things she had done, her volunteer work and her travels, her full life. But Mom had more people.
I can see the generations slicing off. We're coming closer to mine all the time. I have one niece and nephew to whom I feel close and a bunch of cousins I'm starting to talk to on Facebook. I do have good friends, but sometimes I feel awfully alone. When I commented that I would be alone when I was old and dying, my remaining aunt-by-marriage grabbed my arm and fiercely insisted that that was not true, that people care. Yes, but they die and they get busy. If I'm still living in Oregon, we'd better reserve the little chapel.
If my husband was around, it would be different, wouldn't it? And didn't I trade it all for him? It's a gamble we women who are childless by marriage take.
The most comfortable moment of the trip: the day after the funeral, sitting on the ground in the sun next to the grave where the workmen had tossed the pink bouquets over a layer of gravel in the not-quite-filled opening. I could finally breathe. And I didn't feel so damned alone.
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