JayJay
Dear friend,
We’ve been friends for over 30 years.
Meeting in those carefree, halcyon days of our late teens.
And, we’ve seen so many moons and seasons since then.
You got married young, moved countries and taught around the world.
You had kids and have grown them up into young adults.
Your work and family life are intertwined and essential to who you are.
Your dad died too soon, suddenly, tragically. It rocked your world.
I had trouble finding the kind of caring, committed relationship I wanted.
I navigated two relationships that were difficult, painful, but still meant so much.
I worked, travelled when I could, became fiercely independent, cultivated my community here.
I lost two of my closest friends to death, heartbreakingly young.
We’ve stayed in touch through all this time, despite our life courses being different and with many years of geographical distance. We’ve connected and been there during those significant times. Often through cards, texts, coffee and chats. Small and important moments threaded through the fabric of our lives.
You’ve often been so busy with your children, your work, family life, that our catch ups were squeezed in around your schedule. I understood that the rhythms of our lives were different. Our friendship was important and maintaining our connection mattered… so I took things for what they were and caught up when we could… though, over the years there became less and less time for deeper, meaningful conversations… and that’s a sadness I’ve carried.
Something happened recently that made me notice the subject we never actually talked about.
You sent me flowers when I had my hysterectomy, and I appreciated your thoughtfulness. One of your signs that I was in your thoughts, that you were with me in spirit.
But, we never talked about what it meant.
What that surgery really meant, how deeply it hurt.
You acknowledged the loss of my uterus.
But, you never acknowledged I wouldn’t get to be a mum, that my dream was over, that my heart was broken, even though you knew how deeply I wanted to have my own family. Even though, you knew how much your children and family meant to you.
You never asked how I was, how I really was.
And, no, in my numbness, I didn’t say either.
I hoped you’d understand, that you’d get it, that you’d be there.
Because you never followed up, it seemed like you expected me to be over it once the scars on my skin were healed.
My babies were absent, ‘only dreams’, and so it seemed that the comforting arms I craved in grief were absent too. Apparently, my emotions should be silent, like the babies I didn’t get to have.
Then something happened recently that was closer to home for you.
Now your daughter is navigating her own excruciating pain with a reproductive system that’s turning against her. So much debilitating pain, invasive surgeries, time off work and study. Endometriosis is such a cruel disease, taking so much from her life, so young. And recently, with her health declining and treatment options exhausted, the spectre of childlessness is looming in a way that I see has struck the chords of grief. You sent me a text to share the news and that “we’re heartbroken and devastated”.
Gosh those words hit me hard, in the heart…
Not because they’re too much, or unexpected… but because they hold a painful truth that is mine too. Those words you never spoke with me.
Of course, you, your daughter, your family are exhausted from all the painfilled years and lack of medical knowledge. You’re shocked and confronted by the prospect of coping with the loss of those precious hopes and dreams for her life, to become a mother, to do all the things she dreamed of with her child/ren, to fulfill the role of mother/partner, to bring grandchildren into your lives.
It is heartbreaking. And devastating.
And so cruel and unfair.
It’s scary and overwhelming to even consider the emotional, psychological and social impact.
I don’t know how it is to be her, to be you, but I am feeling so much for you both.
I know something of this pain, the shock of a life derailed, and the uncertainty of what’s ahead.
I know, it’s devastating… completely… right now.
But, the part that knocked me so hard, is that you’ve never, not once, acknowledged the grief I’ve navigated in not having the children I dreamed of, not having the chance to be the partner, and home-maker that I dreamed of – the devastating losses I’ve experienced.
And how brave, and resilient I’ve had to be, on my own… without you… to find my way through the grief… and to carry it with me now.
Dear friend, I think it’s time we talk.
While part of me is hurt that you weren’t there for me emotionally, there’s another part that understands that you didn’t know how, that knows that I didn’t know how either.
Having navigated so much of my grief, and nurtured a life I never anticipated, I’m stronger, and wiser now, like that beautiful, gnarled tree that has deep roots and new shoots. Perhaps now, I can meet you in your sorrow, and you can meet me in mine, and we can inspire each other, and your daughter, with the hope and strength to go on.
I’ve learned that it’s never too soon, and never too late, to talk about grief, to honour loss. I’ve learned that the grief of childlessness is a life-long grief, and although it’s lighter and less intrusive now, the heart craves witnesses and validation all along the way.
Dear friend, it’s time we talk about childlessness.
