As Maternal Mental Health Awareness Week draws to a close in the UK, and Mothers Day is celebrated across the pond, I feel drawn to bring some attention to those for whom motherhood has not happened. This is personal for me. I am not a mother, yet for the most part, I feel lucky. But I’ve not always felt that way – let me explain why.
SOCIETY’S EXPECTATION
As a young woman you meet a man, settle down, and, more often from the older generation, the classic questions then start being asked; so when are you getting married then? And when are you going to have kids? For their generation in particular it was expected of them, their role and duty to be wife and mother, so it follows. Then when your single, it’s all about the expectations of settling down and having kids ‘before it’s too late’. It’s asked, often quite innocently and affectionately, but without any understanding of how difficult the answer may be. Society celebrates both marriage and childbirth more than any other life event. Society puts pressure on women ‘of childbearing age’ to conform to the norm. Society also makes assumptions about us as women, that even if we choose a career first we will at some point step back from it to make motherhood our priority. But not all of us will, and for some, there is a difficult and sometimes painful reason why.
MY STORY
Here is my story. My personal perspective around becoming a mother was determined at an early age. At my 14th birthday sleepover, I discovered a lump in my tummy. I told my mum about it the next morning, and within hours I had seen the GP, been referred straight to a gynaecologist, and was in hospital awaiting surgery. I’d been in regular pain since starting my periods around 12 months earlier, but that wasn’t unusual. This lump however was. The doctors didn’t know what they would find, they just knew it wasn’t normal.
There wasn’t any time to have scans or run tests or get anxious about it; instead, I remember the few hours between the appointment and being admitted was a shopping trip for new pyjamas and dressing gown! My curious child-brain saw this as an adventure, and all quite exciting, like the time I had my tonsils out and I helped the nurses make my porridge. And my mum ran with this, shielding me from the true seriousness of the situation.
I was given the option of the adult or children’s ward, but as the consultant didn’t usually treat children it made sense to be with the adults. I didn’t want to be a normal teenager anyway, so I was mildly excited by it all and blissfully unaware of the seriousness of the situation. All the while, my mum protected me whilst facing the true extent of what was potentially happening to her little girl. It would be another decade before I realised the enormity of my mother’s anguish.
After the surgery, the consultant explained to me and my parents what they had discovered. My reproductive system hadn’t formed properly. I had been born with what is medically called a bicornuate uterus – my womb was divided down the middle, but an added deformity was one side had no cervix which meant no exit route. As a result, I had a sizeable blood clot in one side of my divided womb, and another in my fallopian tube. They had done what they could to drain them, but this was a defect that would mean having children was ‘very unlikely’.
ACCEPTANCE
I didn’t dwell or overthink it. I was an ambitious teenager, a tomboy, not one to play with dolls as a child, and so it suited me not to become a mum. Before I was even old enough to be having sex the expectation to conform to a life with kids was lifted. And I entered adulthood in the knowledge it wasn’t in my plans. So at just 14 years old, I mentally accepted I wouldn’t have kids of my own. That’s why I consider myself lucky.
That’s why when I met and settled down with someone in my early 20s, knowing he adamantly didn’t want marriage or kids I saw it as a positive. I wasn’t going to disappoint. And for a while, it wasn’t really asked. We were young enough that it wasn’t expected right away. Marriage first right? And to deal with that question, we decided to buy a house… part of the expected path of adulthood. Meanwhile, I had started to feel pains again, and after lengthy referrals and tests, and discussions about my medical history, it became clear the clot has reformed. So 10 years on from my first operation, I was referred to specialists in London for more surgery.
A DECADE later
This time was different. I was now a 24-year-old adult. A woman of childbearing age. And medicine had a decade of progress. My parenting plans were asked about, and options were discussed. And then I had to sign the pre-op consent. This is when the enormity of parenthood became apparent to me.
Just as my mum had the responsibility for me a decade earlier, as her 14-year-old daughter, consent was required to a full hysterectomy if needed. She had never told me, but I asked her about it at that point, and she said it had been one of the hardest decisions she had to make as a parent to give her consent, but she wanted what was best for me and had to trust the surgeons to only do what was necessary. The true reality of the responsibility of being a parent hit me hard.
The first attempt at minimally invasive surgery proved unsuccessful. On closer inspection, my ovary on the ‘bad’ side of my womb was cystic so they wanted to remove it, along with the half that was shut off and subsequently useless. It’s what is medically called a hemi-hysterectomy. This time there was more knowledge before the surgery, and I was surrounded by specialists used to doing all they could to save fertility and help women have babies. Their message was one of optimism, that what they would leave me with could still enable me to conceive, though ‘carrying to full term would be unlikely’.
POSSIBILITIES
Even though I’d shut down the possibility of childbirth for a decade, and was in a relationship with someone who didn’t want kids, the impossible was now possible, albeit difficult and potentially heartbreaking. And I was of an age now where my friends had started having kids. So for a moment, I thought about motherhood, but I quickly shut the possibility down again, concluding it was best not wanting kids. If that was now I’d probably be offered psychological help to deal with the news but back then it wasn’t a consideration.
Every once in a while I’d feel a pang for a day or two thinking perhaps I did want kids of my own, but I quickly blocked the thoughts and put it down to what I affectionately called a ‘menstrual blip’. When friends who were so keen to have kids were faced with fertility issues, I empathised with them and felt grateful for knowing my position before I felt a desire for parenthood. And by the time that long-term relationship came to an end nearly a decade later I’d pushed the thought of motherhood aside for so long, it stayed there into my next chapter of life. I will admit, I felt able to think about it selfishly for the first time, and as a result, I decided I needed to be selfish first and look after myself before finding a ‘mate’.
THE CHOICE IS NOT ALWAYS OURS TO MAKE
I’m now on the wrong side of 40 to be asked about it very often, but for many years it’s been asked and expected. When I’ve felt comfortable enough to tell people my situation they tend to answer with ‘well you can always adopt’, and I politely respond with ‘yes I could, I know’. But for me, I have had plenty of time to contemplate, and actually have concluded I’m happy as I am. That doesn’t mean I rule out having kids at all, but I don’t feel I need them to be happy, and I don’t personally feel less of a woman for not being a mum, despite society often expecting it of me.
But many (not all) of my female friends, feel that desire, and the expectation, yet for some, they have or will have to accept it won’t be. Whether they’ve struggled with fertility, experienced miscarriage, or as in my case had surgery or abnormality that prevents it being possible, or just not found their mate soon enough, whatever the reasons may be, there are many women for whom motherhood hasn’t happened despite the expectation of society and family. The impact of that disappointment for them and those around them though is psychological, rarely talked about and often unseen.
my version of ‘motherhood’
I met my new ‘mate’ when I was 37, and my biological clock was undoubtedly ticking by then. Whether intentional or not, I seemed to have been drawn again to someone with no desire for kids yet. We have chosen to make our family complete with a fur baby and that’s working for us just fine. But when I meet new people, I still get asked the default question I know all women get asked, of ‘do you have kids?’, and I politely now answer no, I’ve opted for a fur baby instead, and I share dog photos with anyone willing to see. I’ve had my whole adulthood to build up my resilience to expectation, and the rebel in me sometimes takes a mild pleasure in telling a nosey enquirer “I can’t have kids” just to stop further questions.
be mindful, be kind
So next time you meet a woman or see a female friend you’ve not seen in a while, please stop and think before you ask about kids, plans for more kids, or any of the usual conversation questions around family. That goes for the men in your life too… many are dealing with the struggle of infertility as part of a couple, and often silently. For some of us who don’t or can’t have kids, or have accepted our situation after years of difficulty, we have trained our response. But for others, it’s a raw and painful question, the answer to which we may not want to explain, and the mere act of asking triggers an internal response that you may or may not notice. The psychological impact is like picking a scab – it reopens a wound that may heal, but still scars.
As with any mental health concern, if someone opens up then listen, be supportive and if necessary signpost them to suitable help. But don’t prejudge or presume, as society so often does. Understand that not all of us choose motherhood, or indeed it doesn’t choose us.
