My new book, a memoir titled No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, came out on Tuesday.
Publicity is a big part of publishing a book. I have been doing interviews and podcasts, including an interview yesterday online with the marvelous Jody Day, founder of Gateway Women. I hope you will watch the recording and consider buying my book.
See what I just did? Marketing. But that’s not what I want to discuss today. Reviewers and interviewers frequently bring up my childless situation and how Fred didn’t want to have children with me. Some make him sound like a selfish person who didn’t care about me, and that’s not fair. He was terrific. But he was older and had already raised three children. At 48, he didn’t want to start again. I understand that now.
But we didn’t talk about it nearly as much as we should have. Our June 19 Childless Elderwomen panel discussion, also led by Jody Day, was about “Courageous Conversations” and how we often shy away from discussing tough topics with family and friends. One of those conversations I dodged was the one with Fred about having children. When he said he didn’t want any more children, I said, “You don’t?” and pretty much let it go.
I had been divorced for several years, dated some unsuitable men who would have happily impregnated me, and finally decided I would be alone forever. Then came Fred. Our love was so good I didn’t want to do anything to spoil it. He knew I had not had children. We talked about adoption. We talked about reversing his vasectomy. But when he said he didn’t want any more children, the conversation ended.
Why didn’t I ask why? Why didn’t I insist that I have my own chance at motherhood? Why didn’t I make it a dealbreaker? Because I was afraid to lose him. Now, so many years later, I suspect that if I had insisted, he would have given in. I don’t know how we would have done it, but we would have. He paid for my master’s degree. He paid for our trip to Portugal so I could research my book. He spoiled me rotten. I know he felt bad when I grieved on Mother’s Day. But he didn’t offer to make me a mom, and I didn’t insist.
Even if he hadn’t had a vasectomy, I don’t know if he could have gotten me pregnant. His first two kids were adopted. It took Fred and his first wife 17 years to have a surprise baby of their own. Then he rushed into a vasectomy. I should have asked a lot more about their troubles conceiving and pressed harder to find out why he didn’t want more kids. I should have asked why he spent so little time with the kids he had. He didn’t seem to want to talk about any of it, but we needed to. Maybe we would have reached the same conclusion, but I would have felt better about it.
I also needed to have a talk with myself. I was so busy defending my childlessness to the world. We couldn’t have children. God had other plans. Maybe later. Why did I accept not having children so easily? If any man had asked me to give up my writing or my music, I would have left him. Was having children less important to me than I have always said? Why does that make me feel like I might have been faking it all these years?
I don’t think I realized what I was giving up. I was so busy with work, music, school, and homemaking. Only with the passing of years and life stages has it become clear what I missed. It’s not just babies. It’s young children, older children, teens, young adults, mature adults, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, weddings, graduations, babies, Christmas presents, family gatherings, someone to watch fireworks with on Fourth of July, someone to help me when I need help, and someone to inherit my culture and my grandmother’s china teacups. Now, 40 years after that no-kids pronouncement, I know I should have pursued it more. Everything might have been different.
I did not have the conversations I should have had. It’s hard. Partners sometimes get angry, or clam up, or start to cry. I grew up learning to avoid conflict. As soon as the conversation got hot, I backed off. It’s a learned skill to speak our truths calmly and lovingly.
Perhaps you could say, “I know you have said x, but I need you to understand that I feel z. I’m trying to understand what’s holding you back. Can we talk about this a little more? Maybe if we talked it through, we could reach an agreement that will make us both happy.” Maybe sharing a bottle of wine would help ease the tension.
What do you think? Are you avoiding difficult conversations? What would happen if you kept talking? Have you tried? What happened?
Let’s talk about talking about it. I look forward to your comments.
(Photo by Vitaly Gariev on Pexels.com)
Childless by Marriage 
My husband used withdrawal for his birth control. He was going through hell with his teenage daughter and told me he could not have another child. No ifs ands or buts about it. At 38 I knew I couldn’t just leave him, find another man [a decent one] and hurry up and get pregnant. So I stayed.
At this age, 64, I see my family and friends having a lot of issues with their kids. I’m almost relieved that I didn’t have any. I’d rather not have any than deal with some of these major issues I see going on.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I don’t think I realized what I was giving up. I was so busy with work, music, school, and homemaking. Only with the passing of years and life stages has it become clear what I missed.
This is where I’m at now. I have friends of all ages. I don’t envy the diapers, endless breastfeeding, issues with bedtimes. I don’t envy other friends who are struggling to pay for crazy expensive prom dresses and are edging that fine line of being a “mean mom” who won’t allow their children to go on overnight trips.
I don’t envy my brother who is dealing with a young adult who wants to start her college career by living with her boyfriend (who “seems” like an okay guy and all, but still).
But I do envy my friends who enjoy girls trips with their grown daughters. I envy other friends whose children are getting married and asking for advice. I envy their future, which will include grandchildren, comfort, and security – knowing their children will be watching out for them as they grow older.
I keep plugging away at my lifes goals and hoping that it all works out. It will. It just seems like a different kind of hard than those with children deal with.
As a mother I’ve failed and I’ve felt the stings of sadness. But as a daughter I hit the jackpot. My parents are healthy, kind, and totally devoted to each other. I get to enjoy them, learn from them and it’s a pleasure to do things for them. I have friends who struggle with their parents who are uninterested in their child’s life. I have friends who have lost their parents early on. I have friends who have watched their parents suffer through illness. I have a friend who has to take care of her perfectly fine mother, simply because her mother won’t take care of herself.
The older I get I find myself reading the room and not gushing or complaining about my parents antics. I find myself using the same approach I appreciate. Ask about their parents but don’t make a production of the answers. No fake “aren’t you glad about this silly thing.” to pump them up. I ask questions to show I care, but back off and let them direct the conversation. Bragging about my mom making me cookies isn’t kind when I know a friend will never taste her mothers pie again. That sort of thing.
LikeLike
Isn’t hindsight always 20-20? You made the decisions, and lived your life the best way you knew how at the time. You didn’t know that Alzheimers would intervene. You didn’t know how you might feel now. I feel as if you’re beating yourself up for decisions (even if you didn’t realise they were decisions) you took (and Fred) when you were younger. And that makes me feel sad. Be kind to younger Sue. She didn’t know what was to come. None of us ever do, do we? Sending hugs.
And congratulations on the book! Marketing is hard! I’ve been doing the same with Otherhood. Now I’m off to buy it. With my family history of Alzheimers, I suspect it will be a tough read.
LikeLike
Thank you, Mali. I’m not blaming younger Sue, just trying to understand how things worked out the way they did. Younger Sue had no idea what was coming, that’s for sure.
LikeLike
Your blog has been helpful for me. I dealt with infertility with my abusive ex-husband and am now with my boyfriend who is wonderful in every way except that he doesn’t want children. He told me right away, his dating profile I met him from even said so, but we fell in love fast and it was soon too late to back out without breaking my heart and his over leaving.
He had a son in his former marriage born with severe complications, who only lived for three weeks. He doesn’t want to ever try again after that. It’s understandable, and with my former infertility struggle I don’t know if having children is even possible for me but I still am struggling with the grief of trying to accept a life without children. The possibility of leaving him just breaks my heart even more than that possibility.
Even if I wanted to leave, I have little other social support including no family I’m in contact with. I have a lot of trauma and various mental health issues my boyfriend has been incredibly supportive of that made living on my own incredibly difficult. I can admit parenting would be difficult when I struggle to care for myself, but I just turned 35 and always wanted to be a mother. It’s hard to see that dream passing me by even if it’s for the best.
I struggle with having the necessary difficult conversations, though I have had some with him. It’s harder when his decision to not have children is due to the grief from the loss of his child. I haven’t seen that reasoning for it even in other communities of childless not by choice people. It’s hard to navigate, especially at the moment because it’s the time of year he lost his son so the time it’s hardest for him.
I need to be realistic and not expect him to ever change his mind, but I’m working on being more honest with him about my feelings. I keep putting off asking him to please not casually bring up the fact he’s considering getting a vasectomy because it’s a sensitive topic for me and it throws me if I’m unprepared for it. I had told myself I would the next time it happened, but it was in front of other people and I didn’t want to make a scene.
I’ve cried in another room without him noticing a lot of times and I don’t want to keep being like that. It’s hard knowing we’re both dealing with different but similar grief. I think he’s at times been afraid I would leave and felt guilty that children are something he doesn’t feel able to give me. We both have a lot of trauma and anxiety. He’s felt awful and been very worried about me the few times he has seen me cry, which adds to me wanting to keep it to myself.
We’ll get through it and I’m feeling more certain we’ll likely marry and be together for a long time, as difficult as the grief can be to navigate.
LikeLike
A, this is a tough situation. I’m sorry you’re going through it. You’re right; we haven’t talked much about people not wanting to try for children because of a previous bad experience, but it is an important issue. I hope you can both be honest with each other and find a way to peace.
LikeLike