So do you know what I did?

None of it.

I didn’t go to uni.

I didn’t become a model.

Why? Not because I didn’t have the intelligence, looks, or the ability. I didn’t go because I was lacking that one vital ingredient for success: self-belief. I didn’t think I was worthy. I woke up and told myself I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t good enough.

Yesterday, I got signed to a model agency. The first one I applied to, in fact. A second one is now interested in signing me too. I’m not telling you this to show off (although I am a teensy bit proud of myself). I’m telling you this because one of the most important gifts that comes with age, experience, hard times, knock backs and failures is self-belief. Resilience.

Ironically, before life had truly chewed me up and spat me out I had no confidence whatsoever. Yeah, I gave it the big’un; pretended to be the buoyant bolshy blonde that everyone expected me to be, but inside I was a terrified little mouse. It was only AFTER everything went wrong that I discovered my true inner strength and confidence.

On paper I’m a failure: I work in retail for a start. I’m divorced. Childless. Single. Living alone. But for the first time I know my value, and I understand my power. I don’t suffer fools gladly. I take no shit.

And yesterday, the Universe rewarded me with a modelling contract, aged 43. I’m not the smooth-skinned, innocent 18 year old I once was. I’ve got scars and flaws and wrinkles (many, many, wrinkles). But for the first time in my life I’ve also got confidence. And muscles (don’t forget the new-found muscles). And I’m going to look down the lens of that camera, and I’m going to bloody well own it.

Sam x

The post The Power Of Your Inner Voice appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

I thought about my life: about how I arrived at this place, in this room, at this moment, alone with my thoughts. I pondered how far I’ve come in this past decade: from a place of extreme sadness, fear, helplessness, anger and injustice, to the current feelings of strength, wisdom, contentedness, acceptance and peace. I had been unable to change my fate: the inability to have a child. So, slowly but surely, over time – in stages so tiny and gradual as to be almost imperceptible until I look back at them retrospectively over this lengthy period – I came to terms with my situation.

I can finally see all the great things that I am, rather than focusing on that one thing I’m not: a mother. And I thought that sharing this seismic shift in perception might be useful to someone else currently struggling to see a future and find a way out of that dark maze of pain. So I sat up in my bed and wrote this poem. Always remember: you are unique, special and worthy. You are enough. You will get through this, and come out stronger than you ever thought possible. You will not only survive; you will thrive.

Badass Superstar

I’ll never be a mother

Is a statement that has taken

A decade for me to speak aloud

And even now, I’m shaken.

Sometimes the thought pops into my head

That I’m no longer someone’s wife

I never thought that ‘divorcee’

Would become my title in life.

But instead of dwelling on what I’m not

I list all the things I am:

A sister, aunty, boss, daughter and friend

Who answers simply to the name of ‘Sam.’

I’m a lover of life, a writer

I crave adventure; parties; fun

Dancing and travelling are my favourite things

I’m a free spirit; a party of one.

So don’t focus on the things you’re not

Instead remember what you are.

You’ve survived through all life’s highs and lows

You’re a badass superstar.

Sam x

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As the country, nay the world, descends into maternity mania once again at the arrival of yet another blue-blooded baby, our newspapers and newsfeeds awash with the details as if the arrival of a child was something unusual in a world already buckling under the strain of 7 billion humans, spare a thought for a moment for the women for whom this public display of pronatalism causes deep dread rather than excitement: those childless-not-by-choice.

It’s the question that every involuntarily childless woman dreads, and it almost always comes from another woman: “So, how many children do you have?” Rarely does the interrogator even notice the subtle shift in the demeanour of the object of her questions: the sudden peak in heart rate, the deep breath as she reaches down into the depths of her soul and steels herself to deliver the most emotionally-charged of revelations in as casual a manner as she can muster: “Oh, none, actually.”

The childless woman silently pleads with the other female to read the warning message in her eyes to leave it there, change the subject. This rarely happens. “Oh, you didn’t want any? I can’t say I blame you (grabbing one of her wayward offspring by the arm and gently strapping them into the buggy), it’s such hard work. You can borrow one of mine if you like.” And off she goes, buffered by her burgeoning brood, completely oblivious to the small fragment of the other woman’s heart that she has inadvertently chipped away and crushed to bits under the retreating buggy’s wheels.

Being an infertile woman myself, scarred by my failed quest to become a mother, I had felt like an inconvenience to society; an insignificant other. So when I came across Denise Felkin’s photographic project entitled Mum’s Not The Word, a collection of 50 images representing the 20% of women in the UK who are childless or childfree, I was eager to take part – despite the fact that to do so would require me to pose naked in the foetal position, exposing my body as well as my soul. I was undeterred by this requirement; finally, my voice would be heard. As founder of The Non-Mum Network, I enlisted other women from my group to take part. They were willing to do so for similar reasons to my own: whether reluctantly childless, or childfree by choice, they felt their stories deserved to be told; that their existence as a woman without children is every bit as valid as that of someone who has reproduced.

And so it was that one sunny summer’s day in 2017 I travelled to Brighton, my duvet in tow, and disrobed for Denise. A childfree woman herself, she immediately made me feel at ease, and before I knew it she’d snapped away and the shoot was complete. As I nervously awaited the resulting photographs to appear on her screen and wrote the short script that would accompany my image, a sense of calm, empowerment and pride came over me: I had spoken up for childless women everywhere. And it felt good.

And I was not alone. The group of women willing to share their stories and pose naked for the book grew – their reasons for not being mothers as diverse as their skin tones, nationalities and backgrounds. Amongst the women who volunteered to be laid bare, challenging the viewer to appreciate how it might feel to experience life in her skin, is Ellen Rose, the cover girl for the book. “I never had a good relationship with my own mother,” she says simply.

Other participants such as Kat Adam, cite ambivalence towards parenthood. Mel Kalay says that “my life is fulfilled in many ways without children.” Some of the women have been influenced by environmental factors. Tamara says: “There are too many people on the planet already, and I fear for future generations in the light of our rapidly-changing climate.”

Some have thrown everything science has to offer at their motherhood mission, only to be left with nothing to show for their efforts but a greatly diminished bank balance and tainted personal relationships. Some have lost children.

The quotes are by turn shocking, inspiring and sometimes heartbreaking, but always brutally honest, as we invite you to see the world through our eyes as non-mothers. Rather than be dismissed as selfish spinsters or crazy cat ladies, our stories, printed alongside our unfiltered photographs, reveal our pasts, which, like our bodies, may not be perfect, but they are one hundred per cent ours. And we’re not ashamed to claim them.

Mum’s Not The Word, published 31st May 2019, is a groundbreaking photobook about women without children. The nude images of real women in the foetal position challenge the negative attitudes within society towards women who are not mothers, and the text shares their stories of birth and death, choice, freedom, pain…and regret. Mum’s Not The Word debates the social stigmatisation of women, who, by choice, circumstance or otherwise, go against the instinct for childbirth and maternal productivity.

To find out more go to www.mumsnottheword.com. To purchase your copy of the book click here.

Sam x

The post Mum’s Not The Word appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

I was recently approached by the Metro, a popular newspaper distributed across London and the home counties, to write an opinion piece on being labelled ‘infertile’ and how that label has affected me and my sense of self-worth. It is not easy to put yourself out there about such a personal topic, which has had a lifelong and profound effect on me, but I’m pleased and proud to have done so, as every time we speak out about such previously taboo subjects it helps to break down those barriers and support people experiencing such issues.

Grant Melton Photography

Please read and share my article using the link below to show solidarity with those suffering from infertility:

https://metro.co.uk/2018/11/08/my-label-and-me-infertile-8113790/

Grant Melton Photography

Thanks, as always, for your support and appreciation, and if you yourself are suffering from fertility issues please know that you are not alone. Feel free to get in touch with me at sam@lifeabirdseyeview.com. Photos by Grant Melton at www.grantmelton-photography.co.uk.

Grant Melton Photography

Sam x

The post My Article for The Metro – ‘My Label and Me: Infertile’ appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

The woman glanced back over at me, peering up through heavy-lidded eyes, drugged in an oxytocin fug. Her blissful state as she gently rocked her tightly-swaddled newborn back and forth in her lap was at odds with the searing words rolling off her tongue, burning into my skin like acid.

Sure, she was smiling – one of those aloof, close-lipped grins reserved for those who know more than their recipient as they impart words of wisdom. Smug.

She could have left it at that. The inference was clear: as a Non-Mum, I hadn’t reached the hallowed gates of True Love Heaven. Yet she continued.

I was still reeling from the bullet of the first statement, which had hit me full-on in the face, square between the eyes, when she reloaded her verbal semi-automatic and took aim for a second time. To put me out of my misery, presumably – which would probably have been kinder in the long run, I think now with hindsight.

I forced myself out of the depths of my mind, which was currently replaying my friend’s last statement on repeat, taunting me like a broken record, and back into the room as I became aware of the sound of her voice starting up again: a continuous, low-level drone, like the teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoons. The indecipherable sounds slowly swam back into focus until they became sharp, clear as a bell:

“…as a parent, the world just…I dunno Sam…it just looks different.”

Was there an audible thud in the room as those words tore through my body? I looked around, expecting to see an exit wound, thick red blood spattered up the magnolia walls of my sitting room. Nothing. There’d clearly been no sound, the gunshots must’ve ricocheted off the squishy sofa cushions, I figured, because she continued, oblivious, and the baby never even stirred.

“I mean, people told me how amazing motherhood would be – how life-changing – but I had no idea until this little angel appeared in my life. It’s as though I’ve been blessed, you know? As if my entire life has been building up to this moment. It’s like we’ve known one another forever.”

I’d heard her say that last sentence before, years ago, about a boy she’d been dating for five minutes. I’d laughed it off with an accompanying eyeball roll. She’d ghosted me for a while, to pursue their ‘relationship.’ I’d done the same to her on occasion, to be fair. But this was different. I knew I’d lost her for good this time. I mumbled something incoherent, but it didn’t matter because she wasn’t listening anyway.

“It’s like my life has meaning now. I’ve got a purpose. I know what I’m for.”

She obviously hadn’t gauged my wide-eyed look of horror, recoiling in shock as I slumped back against the soft furnishings, the innocuous surroundings of my home disguising the fact that I felt like I was under siege by this, this stranger sat before me wearing my old mate’s clothes.

I wanted to leap up, turn off the telly (which incidentally was playing some inane daytime show aimed at other women, different women, who, unlike me, also had a “purpose”), and bellow at her: “Do you actually know what you’re doing to me right now?!” Can’t you see the wounds to my heart that your machine-gun volley of verbal shots is causing?!”

But of course, I didn’t. I smiled and drank my tea and made all the acceptable congratulatory noises, rather than the wild-animal wail I wanted to release from deep down in my soul. She was my friend. I wanted her to be happy. I was happy for her. I decided to let her have her moment. But it wasn’t easy. Because ‘her moment’ would last a lifetime.

And mine would never come.

September 10th – 16th is World Childless Week. To find out more go to www.worldchildlessweek.net. This article has been featured here in the Parents section of the Huffington Post UK. 

Sam x

The post You Never Know True Love Until You Have A Child appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

Argh! It’s happened! My newsfeed is full of back-to-school snaps!
Well, fear not, Non-Mums, because next week is our week :

Stephanie, founder of World Childless Week, and I recorded this video chat last week to tell you all about it.

The daily themes:

Useful links:

World Childless Week

The Non-Mum Network

Childless Path To Acceptance

Childless Chit-Chat

Childless Perks

Gateway Women 

Please share this post or create one of your own about World Childless Week to help raise awareness of childlessness and show your support for Non-Mums everywhere.

Sam x

The post World Childless Week appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

That is how I feel as a childless woman. I am that plimsoll. I have ended up in a place I did not expect to be, and people tend to view my life with curiosity or suspicion, occasionally make a flippant comment or two…and then walk on by.

I mean, it’s not as though the plimsoll has a family at home worrying about where it is, is it? Perhaps if there were a couple of baby plimsolls looking forlorn at the foot of the tree then people would take an interest, reach out and get it down. But seeing as it’s just a lone shoe, not even a pair, there’s not much point worrying about what’ll happen to it, is there?

We live in a pronatalist society. Despite the rampant destruction by insatiable humans – our arrogance reassuring us that the planet and everything on it is ours, at our disposal, put here merely for our convenience – we continue to view reproduction as our sole purpose on Earth. If you fail to produce a family, as a woman at least, you’ve failed at life. Or maybe just missed the point.

Are childless households still families?

Earlier today, I glanced up from my laptop just as those loose-lipped lizards over at Loose Women were discussing whether or not a household without children in it can be described as a family. Seriously?! Which century are we in? Jane Moore smugly points out that the (antiquated!) dictionary definition of a family is “two parents and their children” and must be “blood relatives.”

We all have a story…

Conversations can often fall flat when you reveal you don’t have children – and later, grandchildren. The childless become adept at side-stepping awkward conversations, displaying verbal fancy footwork as we dance around painful topics, carefully guiding the chit-chat onto safer ground. Of course, there is always a story – just not one we necessarily want to have with a virtual stranger at the bus stop, or a well-meaning relative at a wedding. I recall one “family friend” laughing like a drain as she reached out to pat my stomach at a party, exclaiming: “Still nothing in there, then?!” I guess she wasn’t to know that I’d just had my third unsuccessful round of IVF.

Why we need World Childless Week

One in five women today will never have children. There is a multitude of reasons why: choice, infertility, circumstance. Yet still we sit on the sidelines of life. We’re like extras in a film, as the main cast – the families – take centre stage. Everything is geared towards parenthood and traditional “family life”: at the supermarket, on television, in the media. “Family-size” food portions. “Family” days out. It’s relentless. But, gradually, the tide is turning. Childless women are speaking out. Childless men, too, are slowly stepping out from the shadows. We finally have a platform, and now, with the impending second anniversary of World Childless Week next week(10th-16th September), we are speaking together. Our collective voice is getting louder.

I spoke to Stephanie Joy Phillips, founder of World Childless Week, about how it came about, and how she’s championing childless people everywhere:

So instead of eyeing childless people with suspicion or disdain, or dismissing them as “non-families” please consider for a moment: how would you feel if the shoe were on the other foot?

For more information about World Childless Week, go to www.worldchildlessweek.net, follow the World Childless Week page on Facebook or the World Childless Week account on Twitter. 

(Incidentally, whilst searching for an accompanying picture of shoes in trees, I discovered that shoes in trees are actually a thing.)

Sam x

The post Like a Shoe in a Tree appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

Of course, I read them.

12 years ago, aged 30, I went to the doctor for advice, and potentially assisted conception. (I’d had earlier surgery in my mid-twenties for pre-cancerous cells on my cervix, but had been assured that wouldn’t affect my future fertility. It turned out the doctors were wrong).

Two years later, at 32, I instead found myself being sterilised as per the advice of said doctors. Apparently, my fallopian tubes were damaged and needed to be removed to allow the IVF (they said I needed) a greater chance of success, as they were leaking fluid potentially toxic to embryos – a condition called hydrosalpinx. When I awoke from the procedure I was told that actually, the tubes hadn’t looked that bad after all – the other hospital had been wrong – but they’d removed them anyway. (Sorry, what?!). Upon being discharged from the hospital, the discharge form stated I’d had a ‘bilateral salpingo-oopherectomy.’ I didn’t know what that was (since it had never even been mentioned as a possibility), so I Googled it. They’d removed both my ovaries as well as the tubes?! What the actual…?! I’d never consented to that!

Shaking, I rang the (private) hospital we’d just paid over £3.5k to (in order to skip what would have been another very lengthy waiting list – the actual surgeon was the same one I’d have seen on the NHS). They said it was an admin error, they’d not touched the ovaries, to destroy that discharge form, and they’d post the correct one…

Fast forward to 3 attempts at IVF. They all failed. Unsurprising, since Barts struggled to get any eggs from the tiny excuses for ovarian tissue I had remaining. I was labelled a Poor Responder, diagnosed with premature ovarian failure and told to forget any hopes of motherhood. Years later, feeling horrendous, I was finally diagnosed with premature menopause and put on oral HRT. (By then these events had destroyed my 15-year relationship and my husband and I eventually divorced.)

Back to last month, alone in that hospital bed. I’m awaiting yet another procedure, (all of which have been related to that very first cell removal almost 2 decades ago). I peek at my notes…which confirm that they did, in fact, perform a bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy.

They took my ovaries. Who removes the ovaries of a 32-year-old trying to conceive?! They got the dates wrong; it was July 2008 not 2009, but there it is.

Evidence.

Did I mention that, despite being in hospital for an operation directly related to my infertility and subsequent sterilisation, and despite the fact that the nurse has just discussed my full medical history and my devastation at being sterile, another nurse has just breezed in sing-songing: “Good news! You’re not pregnant!” Un-frickin-believable. I had no idea the urine sample was for a pregnancy test.

Anyway. I’m now laid up in agony, my body (and mind – this is some headfuck!), contorting in pain.

I should point out that this catalogue of catastrophes has taken place over two decades, several boroughs, two counties (I moved house and areas several times over the years), about five different GPs, several hospitals – both NHS and private. It’s complex, which is why I’ve not pursued it before now.

So, what do I do? Try to accept the hand I’ve been dealt and move on? Or challenge the decisions made by others that have ultimately changed (ruined?!) my life?

Hmmm. It’s a melon-twister alright. I decide to do a little digging, go on a fact-finding mission…

A week later I’m out of the hospital and feeling better so I contact my GP’s secretary, who arranges an appointment for the following week for me to view my notes. Just long enough to dig out and destroy any evidence, I think, sceptically.

Lo and behold, when I rock up at the surgery the mousy receptionist leads me to a dingy little office amongst the rabbit-warren of rooms I never knew existed behind the bright and airy doctor’s office and proclaims: “It’s not good news, I’m afraid.”

She pulls out a dog-eared file stuffed with scraps of spider-scrawled paper and distinctly unofficial-looking medical notes. The main thing I notice is the rather sparse amount of material. Surely 42 long years on Planet Earth warrants slightly more than a few yellowing file cards and some folded sheets of A4?

Where are all the notes that I photographed at the hospital? I have to confess to copying them to prove that they are missing. Her explanation? That those notes are transcribed from this tatty file, and that someone must have copied them down wrong when describing my procedure as a ‘bilateral salpingo-oopherectomy.’

“If you only consented to a bilateral salpingectomy then that’s what would have been done,” she says tersely, “…so I’ll just go in and amend the notes accordingly then.” Can they even just do that? Change my medical records?!

“But surely there’s some record of all the infertility investigations, procedures and operations I’ve endured?” I ask, incredulous. It would appear not. In fact, the only reference she can find in a 10-year period is my GP’s IVF referral letter to St Barts. No consent forms, discharge forms or doctor’s notes. At all. No IVF records. (Luckily I requested copies from Barts at the time and have these safely in my filing cabinet at home.)

I approach the private hospital. Nothing. My records have been destroyed. I’m advised to try the Pathology department. Snap. Histology? Same again. They say my name is on file but the tissue samples were incorrectly coded with a generic code, so there’s no record of where in the body they were taken from…and no record of where they were sent for storage. They reluctantly give me contact details for the storage facility. Again, nothing. I come up against a brick wall. It’s like I never existed. The invisible woman.

Later, at my hospital follow-up appointment, I ask my current consultant if I have ovaries. “I don’t know,” he says, looking sheepish. “I didn’t look. We were only dealing with the womb…”

Feeling frustrated, I decide it’s a lost cause. And then, I find something. A website called www.tubal.org. I read about Post Tubal Ligation Syndrome (PTLS). It’s the first I’ve ever heard of this condition, despite the fact I have almost every symptom and have done for over a decade. The IVF doctors did mention that even if the ovaries had not been removed, at the very least the blood supply to the ovaries must have been accidentally damaged during the tubal procedure. It was said fleetingly, in hushed tones, and never mentioned again. An Old Boys’ Network code of silence, it would seem.

And suddenly it all makes sense: the tube removal, the failed IVF, the POF (premature ovarian failure), surgical menopause, the denial by doctors that it’s related to my surgeries, being prescribed many, many different versions of HRT, the ‘lost’ medical records, the cover-up. And now the need for a further hysteroscopy procedure to remove polyps and my womb lining, the need to insert a coil: the second form of sterilisation to now being inflicted on an already-infertile woman…this time to try and regulate my shot hormones.

I have PTLS.

And I’m not going to let this go.

This is going to sound crazy, but hear me out. I’ve since found out that:

– there is a global policy which has been in place since 1976 to control the population by sterilising 1 in 4 women. The most famous example of this is China’s One Child Policy. This target is being hit…and surpassed.

– Worldwide, doctors are actively “selling” sterilisation (tube removal/ligation) as a means of population control without disclosing the myriad associated health risks.

– when the blood supply to the ovaries is damaged (which I thought was rare and I was unlucky, but actually happens in at least half of cases), the result is ovarian failure aka surgical menopause. The ovaries do not have to be removed to be rendered useless. The result is ‘female castration.’

– health risks of this include heart disease, stroke, premature death, dementia, osteoporosis – the list goes on. Most women with premature ovarian failure (menopause under the age of 40) do not reach their 80th birthday.

– there is a Code Of Silence (COS) in the medical profession about this since the above policy protects the profession from legal action. I am encountering this now: being told my notes have been destroyed etc.

– you will not get hormone testing/diagnosis of PTLS (Post Tubal Ligation Syndrome) since to diagnose it would be to admit liability. You will not find the risk of PTLS (and the serious long-term health implications) on any pre-surgery consent form.

Ladies: we have to take a stand against this! Are you a woman who has been sterilised (aka tubal ligation/bilateral salpingectomy), as a precursor to IVF (like me), or for birth control? Or do you know someone who has? Have you/they suffered Post Tubal Ligation Syndrome as a result?

I am determined not to let other women suffer as I have as a result of misinformation. I went to my GP asking for help to start a family. I was left infertile, sterilised and in premature menopause, my life expectancy reduced and with a whole host of associated health problems. I have signed the petition for clarity on the consent form, joined the Coalition For Post Tubal Women (CPTW) and intend to expose this and fight. If you too are a victim of this doctor-caused dis-ease, please get in touch.

Sam x

The post PTLS: Post Tubal LIE-Gation Syndrome appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

When Little Miss Organised hit her 30th birthday, she took stock. Now, she thought, would be the Perfect Time to start a family. Only Life had other plans. After a year of trying to conceive became 18 months, Little Miss Organised took herself to the doctors. Being a headstrong and determined kind of girl, she was sure she could overcome this little hiccup, as she’d always leapt every other hurdle in her path with ease. She was a strapping six-footer, after all; healthy and strong and otherwise fit.

The doctor referred her for a series of tests, which revealed blocked fallopian tubes, probably as a result of an infection following that pesky cell-removal op. He said the tubes must be removed. “Sterilisation?” she asked, dubiously. “But I want a family.” “Simple,” he replied confidently, “we’ll perform IVF. You’ll have a family, don’t worry.”

A decade later, and Little Miss Organised has a completely different life to the one she’d expected, the one she’d worked so hard to create. She is sitting on a pile of rubble, rubbing her eyes, shell-shocked. Looking around at the devastation, she strives to take it all in. The big house, the husband, the perfect life – all gone. There are no children; no happy family. Instead, she has an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach, which is partly from the loss of her life as she knew it, and partly from the missing organs that were removed without the potential consequences being explained.

Because not only have her fallopian tubes been removed, but also any hope of a family, and her health as she knew it. The operation plunged her into premature menopause, robbing her of her fertility, her marriage, her health….and almost, for a while, her sanity.

Now Little Miss Organised has a new life. It is not the life she wanted. It is not the life she planned. But it is the only life she has. And, by fuck, is she going to make the most of it. But she’s not going to plan. Well, not in the way she used to, anyway. Because she now understands that, ultimately, she is not in control. She just hopes and trusts that the journey will unfold as it should.

Because Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.

Let go. Let life happen.

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