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.

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.

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.

The post Let Life Happen appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

I beamed. “Oh great!”

I’d always been a reasonably studious schoolkid (I was in the A-stream at grammar school, dontcha know), so I’d come to expect no less than top marks from my body as well as my brain. Despite my loud Kentish accent, fair hair and six-foot stature, I’m no dumb blonde. So when the fertility doctor sat back in his swivel chair with a deep sigh and a furrowed brow, I was a little taken aback.

“Actually, it’s not great. Not great at all. A high FSH – that’s follicle stimulating hormone – test result is an indicator that your ovaries aren’t working as we’d expect for a woman of your age. We want a lower result. Imagine a car’s engine: you want it to purr along effortlessly, low revs. With your engine you’ve got your foot pressed hard on the accelerator, revving away…but you’re not getting anywhere….”

Oh.

That was near the start of my IVF journey, back in 2009, and was the shape of things to come: one disappointment after another; tiny victories followed by crashing, crushing, blows. My previous track record of good scores and good health were eradicated within months. Instead of High Achiever I now had a new, less impressive label on my records: Poor Responder. This less-than-desirable accolade is awarded to those who, like myself, have not responded as expected to the prescribed protocol.

The drugs, put simply, didn’t work.

Oh they did do something: mood swings, hot sweats, nosebleeds in the middle of the night. But my ovaries remained stubbornly, resolutely unresponsive. The doctors increased the drug dosages incrementally, reminiscent of an executioner turning up the voltage on an electric chair and standing back, waiting for the convict’s eyes to bulge and tongue to loll out. Higher and higher they went, until they reached the maximum legal dosage. Nothing. Scan after scan, pumped full of chemicals until I was bloated and uncomfortable like a duck being force-fed for the fois gras factory. But still my ovaries refused to play ball, producing only one or two substandard eggs instead of the fifteen or so that was desired – if not required – to increase the odds of a subsequent ‘live birth.’

Time and again, the doctors shook their heads forlornly and advised cancelling the precious cycle that we’d waiting months – no, years – for…and at each appointment we pleaded with them to continue: “Because it only takes one, right?”

Eventually, my husband and I conceded defeat and acknowledged reality: we’d never have a child of our own. Not only was my body not going to produce a baby, I was about to receive another killer blow from the specialist:

“You’ve experienced Premature Ovarian Failure. Your bloods now indicate negligible reproductive hormones and your egg supply is extremely low. I’m afraid you’re in the menopause.”

Premature menopause or Premature Ovarian Failure (during which periods can still occur, as was the case for me) is the name given to menopause occurring before the age of 40. The standard age for menopause is 51. By this point, at the end of 2011, I was 35; sixteen whole years below the average age. However, it’s likely that I’d been in this sorry state for a lot longer, having had previous gynaecological surgery to remove precancerous cells following a smear test (you can read about that here) at the turn of the century in my mid-twenties, and two more operations at the start of 2008, aged 32. During the final operation I’d been advised to have my damaged fallopian tubes removed (ironically, to improve the chances of IVF success), and it was probably at this point that the blood supply to the ovaries was permanently disrupted. Surgical removal of the ovaries (oopherectomy) is the primary cause of POF, although other causes include cancer, sterilisation, trauma and stress. For some women the cause is never known.

Looking back, I had a lot of the symptoms of menopause. Yet despite this diagnosis and long, meandering gynaecological history, my GP refused to acknowledge the need for HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy) due to the (hotly debated) health risks and instead prescribed…antidepressants. Apparently this is common, as the symptoms are similar: low mood, brain fog, fatigue, low libido. But whilst SSRIs might tackle the mood aspects of premature menopause, they do nothing to counteract the flatlining hormone levels that can have a lifelong impact on vital aspects of a woman’s health: cardiovascular disease, cancer, bone loss leading to crippling osteoporosis, tooth loss, Alzheimer’s disease and ultimately, premature death. “Really?!” I thought to myself. “Is there no end of misery in store for me?” I was at my lowest ebb, and even contemplated suicide. I was well and truly broken, both mentally and physically, as I’ve written about here.

Finally, aged 37 and having suffered years of debilitating symptoms, I saw a sympathetic private specialist who prescribed combined oral cyclical (also known as sequential) HRT: oestrogen and progesterone. It was life-changing. I threw away the antidepressants that I’d been taking for almost two years and had an immediate new lease of life. The colour was finally switched back on after a long stint in a black-and-white world. It was too late for my fertility (and sadly my marriage) yet I felt the fog slowly lifting – and with it, a glimpse of the possibility of future happiness on the horizon that had hitherto felt impossible.

If you suspect premature menopause, don’t suffer in silence.

Premature Menopause Facts: 

• Premature menopause affects 1% of UK women.
• There is no cure for premature menopause or premature ovarian failure.
• Symptoms include: night sweats, disrupted sleep, mood swings, irritability, depression, low libido, weight gain and cognitive impairment (also known as ‘brain fog’).
• Pregnancy is still possible (if unlikely) during premature ovarian failure, and the woman may still be having periods. Women with POF are advised to use donor eggs during IVF, as the likelihood of IVF success with their own eggs is often as low as 5%.
• Premature menopause is often dismissed or misdiagnosed as depression. Insist on blood tests of hormone levels: FSH, LH, HCG and AMH for accurate diagnosis, taken on day 2-4 of your cycle.
• Risks of premature menopause if left untreated include cardiovascular disease, osteoporosis and low thyroid function.
• The main treatment to alleviate symptoms of menopause is HRT, although there is a slight suspected increased risk of stroke, breast cancer, ovarian cancer, womb cancer and heart disease. Benefits outweigh the risks at least upto the age of regular menopause (51).
• The different forms of hormone replacement include an oral tablet, pessaries, topical creams, gels, patches and the Mirena coil.
• Natural ways to protect health following a premature menopause diagnosis include getting plenty of calcium in the diet, exercising regularly, maintaining an ideal weight, increasing exposure to sunlight for vitamin D and bone health, stopping smoking (big tick for me on this) and reducing alcohol intake (erm, I’m still working on this one).
• Herbal alternatives include Black Cohosh, St John’s Wort, Evening Primrose Oil, Ginseng and soya products.
• If your GP is unsympathetic you are entitled to register with another doctor of your choice, not just the one in closest proximity to your address, under NHS Patient Choices guidelines. 

Online support:

• The Daisy Network. A patient-run support group based in UK.
• The Dovecote founded by Kelly Da Silva.
• Gateway Women founded by Jody Day.
• Premature Ovarian Failure Support Group.
• Facebook groups – plenty! Just search under Premature Ovarian Failure.
• The Non-Mum Network. A support group for women without children for whatever reason (founded by yours truly!).

Further reading:

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Menopause At 35 Turned My Life Upside Down appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

I love to travel. Sometimes I even love to travel alone. I’ve backpacked solo around Thailand, no problem. I’m a grown-ass woman after all: big enough, savvy enough…yep, and ugly enough to take care of myself. Sure, there were moments of loneliness; occasions where I’d watch a particularly breathtaking sunset and wish there was another human sitting alongside me, chugging on a Chang and gazing wistfully out to sea. But by and large I found travelling alone to be liberating and utterly exhilarating.

But there’s one particular journey I’ve undertaken that was excruciatingly lonely and soul-crushingly isolating: my IVF journey.

Although it was more a trip than a journey really. A bad one. The drugs you’re given during an IVF cycle are almost as mind-bending as LSD, for a start. Then there’s the waiting. So. Much. Waiting. Waiting for a year for the GP referral to the clinic in the first place, then another year (if you’re lucky!) on the clinic’s waiting list; waiting for tests…and then the results; waiting for the cycle to begin, the egg retrieval; waiting for news of fertilisation…then the two-week wait to find out if it’s worked. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Even the longest flight I’ve ever taken – to Australia, which seems never-ending – is like seconds compared to the clock-watching agony of waiting for news during each nail-gnawing stage of the IVF process.

And all through that process there’s this sense of solitude that makes you feel as though you’re the sole survivor of a shipwreck, bewildered and blinking in the sunlight; washed-up and alone on a desert island, wondering what the future holds; wondering if you’ll ever be rescued from the grip of infertility that somehow makes time stand still.

Only I wasn’t alone – well, not physically, at least. I’d step out of St Barts Hospital, rivulets of mascara-streaked tears coursing down my cheeks after another failed round of treatment, and be swallowed up by the sea of strangers surging onto the tube at Bank station. It’s funny how you can be surrounded by people, nose-to-nose in a crazily-overcrowded city like London – yet still feel completely alone.

Occasionally I’d spot a ‘Baby on board’ badge being proudly sported by a glowing expectant mum, coat straining over burgeoning bump, and think: “Will I ever get to wear one of those?” (The answer, which came much later, was no). Ironically, the IVF drugs make your stomach bloat, so I’m sure some people mistakenly thought I was already ‘in the club.’

I considered making my own badge, adding a big red ‘NO’ in front of the words ‘Baby on board,’ and a tongue-in-cheek ‘…but can I have your seat anyway?’ after them, followed by a smaller ‘Infertility awareness.’ But then I thought better of it. It would’ve had to have been a pretty big badge for a start, to fit all that on clearly. Saucer-sized, at least. Hardly subtle.

I guess my badge idea was kind of a cry for help, a hope that other women in similar circumstances would see it and strike up a conversation with me; actual, real-life women, instead of just the virtual friends (helpful as they were) that I made online on sites such as Fertility Friends as we consoled and supported one other late at night through our computer screens.

So when I came across the pineapple pin, the simple but genius brainchild of the ladies over at online fertility magazine IVF Babble, I mentally high-fived them and their stylish, subtle approach (as opposed to my bullish one) and instantly headed to Amazon to get my own. As this year marks the 40th anniversary of IVF success, IVF Babble launched their #StrongerTogether campaign during last month’s National Fertility Awareness Week. The pineapple, long since a universal symbol of friendship, warmth and welcome, has become the globally-recognised symbol of good luck in the TTC (trying to conceive) community.

Both Sara Marshall-Page and Tracey Bambrough from IVF Babble are proud mothers of twin girls following their own fertility treatments, so are fully aware of the rollercoaster of emotions that are inevitable during such a personal and life-changing journey. Although I am no longer part of the TTC community myself, having stepped off the fertility treatment carousel some years ago now, I am a vocal supporter of those who are going through treatment and beyond. I am far enough along in my journey to be able to help others: on my blog Life: A Bird’s Eye View, in newspaper and magazine articles, and my Facebook group for childless (or childfree, depending on your outlook) women called The Non-Mum Network.

The pineapple pin is for anyone wanting to offer support to those with fertility issues, as well as the one in six couples experiencing difficulties themselves, with all profits going to Fertility Network UK. Famous supporters include Fearne Cotton, Kate Thornton, and Izzy Judd, wife of McFly drummer Harry, and now a mother of two following her own fertility struggles.

Having gone through my own meandering IVF journey, taking the scenic route to happiness, albeit without the fairytale visit from the stork at the end, I can say that anything that offers support to those people – both men and women – going through fertility treatment has to be a good thing. UK IVF success rates currently stand at around 1 in 3 per cycle for women under 35, with well over 250,000 babies born in the UK though IVF in the past 25 years.

So if you’re sitting at the bus stop or on the tube and you see someone wearing the pin, give them a smile. You may both be on the same journey – in more ways than one.

Would you like to show your support for this campaign? Order your pineapple pin now from Amazon below….

This article has also appeared in the Lifestyle section of the Huffington Post UK here.

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Pining For A Baby? The Pineapple Pin That Says ‘You’re Not Alone.’ appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

IVF KILLED MY MARRIAGE

"When we began IVF in October 2009, my then husband Liam and I were confident it would work. We'd had to resort to fertility treatment as my fallopian tubes were blocked, and by August 2011, we were on our third attempt. I can recall the hope I felt knowing I was due to take a pregnancy test – followed by heartbreak when my period arrived. We were gutted, especially as we'd run out of NHS funding. That's when we made the decision to say enough was enough. I'd been taking the maximum dosage of hormones for each treatment, so my moods had been all over the place. Liam and I had always been a laid-back, party-loving couple, but by that point, we'd argue over everything.

After we decided not to carry on, we ended up retreating to our own floors of the house, dealing with our loss alone. I began to see friends on my own and Liam did the same. Then we began going on separate holidays. There were days when we tried to make amends, but the hope we once shared had been replaced with grief. While we did look into fostering and discussed adoption, we really wanted our own children. And besides, by the time adoption was the only option left, our relationship wasn't strong enough. It was too painful to be together, so in February 2013 we split. We sold the house and moved out a few days after our eighth wedding anniversary. I was 37, and I felt like a failure. It hurt so much, and I almost contemplated suicide.

Liam soon began dating a younger woman. I felt sick at the thought of him having a baby with someone else. I truly believed – and still do – that we would still be married if we hadn't put ourselves through IVF. Liam still hasn't had any kids, but I've come to terms with the fact he might one day, and I know he will make a great dad.

In August 2014, I met my current partner, Andy. He has two young daughters who live with their mother, but I see them regularly. I think I have now accepted that I'll never be a mother. I think we were lucky we had our treatment through the NHS, as we were given honest information about success rates. But I know that some clinics present results in such a way as to make them look better that they actually are."

Are you a Non-Mum like myself? Would you like to join like-minded women to discuss everything Non-Mum-related? Join my club, The Non-Mum Network here. If you would prefer to chat privately, you can email me at sam@lifeabirdseyeview.com.

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird'sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post I’m on the cover of Woman’s Own magazine: “IVF Killed My Marriage” appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

So not me, then: a straight, white, working-class, able-bodied woman?

If you see me walking down the street, dressed up to the nines to meet my friends for a night out, or on my way to work, you’d be forgiven for assuming I was the epitome of Western privilege, and in many ways I am: educated; employed; financially independent; a homeowner, albeit mortgaged – although otherwise debt-free.

Yet despite appearances, I am part of a minority group. Allow me to explain….

84% of the population reproduce
87% of women become mothers
1 in 8 couples have infertility issues
1/3 of those cases are male factor, 1/3 female, 1/3 unexplained
11% of women have fertility issues
Fewer than 3% of those require ivf
IVF has around a 25% success rate each cycle, meaning 75% of all IVF cycles fail
I had 3 failed IVF cycles
That puts me in the less than 1% of the general population who remain infertile and childless as a result of failed ivf.

So let me ask that again. Do you still think I’m not part of a minority, discriminated against accordingly?

Before you get the violins out to play the soundtrack to the world’s worst-attended pity party, the reason for this article is simply to raise awareness for the upcoming World Childless Week. Society is geared towards family life, since that is the accepted norm: the average British woman has 1.9 children. Those who do not fit this accepted status are often viewed with suspicion: seen as less nurturing and caring, more narcissistic. Selfish.

Sociologist Louis Wirth defined a minority group as: “a group of people who, because of their physical or cultural characteristics, are singled out from the others in the society in which they live for differential and unequal treatment, and who therefore regard themselves as objects of collective discrimination.”

I regularly experience discrimination, prejudice, lack of empathy and understanding, a “them and us” attitude from many parents, and general social ostracisation. This is despite the fact that, like many of those belonging to minorities, I attempted to conform. I longed to be Mrs Average; to fit in. I tried my hardest to join the 8 in 10 women who are mothers. I wanted to chat about buggy brands and breastfeeding with my besties, not sit squirming on the sidelines whilst everyone discusses potty training, or how to get their offspring to eat vegetables.

People are attracted to those they have something in common with, so it stands to reason that parents seek out other parents – not least for validation and reassurance. Attempts by childless women to contribute to conversations about child-rearing are generally met with dismissal and disdain (it’s understandable – what would I know about the reality of sleepless nights and toddler tantrums?). It’s inevitable that even the strongest and longest of friendships are altered forever when one party becomes a parent.

Later, the conversation shifts to schools, exam results, puberty and boyfriends. Their children are becoming adults. The next stage in this lifelong test will be my friends becoming proud grandparents, and the entire cycle of social exclusion will start again.

Of course, I’m fully aware that compared to those from other minorities, I could be considered one of the lucky ones. My minority group membership is invisible (initially at least, until I get asked those dreaded questions: “so, how old are yours then? Boys or girls?”). I won’t get called a “freak” or have racial abuse hurled at me in the street. But on the flip side, nor will I receive any concessions or allowances based on the fact I’m from a minority group, since it’s not obvious that I’m part of one. Contrary to appearances, I DO know how it feels to be excluded; to be eyed with suspicion, curiosity or disapproval; to be made to feel “less than.” We are not as different as you might think.

So next time you see me in the street, remember: there’s always more to any situation than meets the eye – even for a privileged white, middle-aged woman like me…

Are you a Non-Mum like myself? Would you like to join like-minded women to discuss everything Non-Mum-related? Join my club, The Non-Mum Network here. If you would prefer to chat privately, you can email me at sam@lifeabirdseyeview.com.

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Minority Report: Them and (a much smaller) ‘Us’ appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

The post The Outfit I Will Never Wear Again appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

IVF KILLED MY MARRIAGE

Samantha Walsh, 41, works in retail management and lives with her partner Andy, 35, a shipping coordinator, in Sevenoaks, Kent. She says:

“When we had our first round of IVF in October 2009, my then-husband Liam and I were so confident it would work, we bought a four-bedroom house in Sevenoaks. We were raring to fill it with our family, but looking back, it was a mad thing to do. We’d had to resort to fertility treatment because my Fallopian tubes were blocked with scar tissue from a previous gynaecological operation, and by August 2011 we were on our third attempt. But I was still sure it was going to happen. I vividly remember the hope I felt knowing I was due to take a pregnancy test on our sixth wedding anniversary – followed by utter heartbreak when my period arrived.

We were both gutted, especially as we had run out of NHS funding. That’s when we made the horrendous decision to say enough was enough. Neither of us felt strong enough to continue – it was just too hard. I’d been taking the maximum dosage of hormones for each treatment, so my moods had been all over the place. Liam and I had always been a laid-back, party-loving couple, but by that point we were arguing over everything. It didn’t help that our dream family home needed a lot of work, so on top of the pressures of trying to get pregnant, a renovation just made us more stressed. Our lives had effectively been put on hold for two years as we desperately fought to have a family and now it was all for nothing.

After we decided not to carry on, we ended up retreating to our own floors of the house, where we could deal with our loss alone. Liam had the top floor, I had the one below. Without a common goal of a family, we lost our focus and optimism. While I grieved for what I would never have, I began to see my friends on my own and Liam did the same. It was very subtle, but soon we were socialising without each other, which was something we had never done before. Then we started going on separate holidays. There were days when we were so heartbroken that our 15-year relationship was in such a sorry state that we tried to make amends, but all the hope we once shared was replaced by grief.

While Liam and I did look into fostering and discussed adoption, we didn’t want a child for the sake of a child, we really wanted our own children. And besides, by the time adoption was the only option left, our relationship wasn’t strong enough. It was just too painful to be together and in February 2013 we split up. We sold the house and moved out a couple of days after our eigth wedding anniversary. I felt so alone. I was 37, and all my friends were married or in a relationship and extending their families, while I felt like a complete failure. It hurt so much that I almost contemplated suicide.

Liam and I stayed in touch and a few months after we split he started dating a younger woman. I felt sick at the thought of him having a baby with someone else. I truly believed – and still do – that we would still be married if we hadn’t put ourselves through IVF. I so wish we had been able to regain the happiness we had before our infertility nightmare began.

Even so, I am glad we tried, as I would have regretted it if we hadn’t. Liam still hasn’t had any kids, but I’ve slowly come to terms with the fact he might have children one day and I know he will make a great dad.

In August 2014, I met my current partner Andy. He has two young daughters who live with their mother, but I see them regularly, which is lovely. He’s at peace with the fact that I will never be able to give him children. My sister has a young son so I’m an auntie now, too. I’ve learned it’s best not to dwell on what might have been, and I think I have accepted that I will never be a mother.

I believe we were lucky that we had our treatment though the NHS, as we were given honest information about success rates – there was no benefit for them to cherry-pick figures. But I know that some clinics present results in such a way as to make them look better than they actually are, which is heartbreaking – especially for vulnerable couples who are desperate to have a baby. I know too well how that desperation feels and am just so glad that they didn’t try to tap into it.

Thankfully, I’ve now found another purpose in my life, running a Facebook group for women in the same situation as me. It’s just so nice we can all offer each other support having gone through such an awful time.”

For the full article, go to Fabulous Magazine Online or click here.

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

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