‘For all the other non-grandparents out there: you are not alone’

This story is part of the May 18 edition of Good Weekend.See all 12 stories.

My biggest regret in life is not being a mother. My second-biggest regret is not being a grandmother. The labels stay with you forever but rarely seem thought about by those who take the blessings of grandparenthood for granted. Joy in grandchildren can be shared, even invited and welcomed, but the profound sorrow of never having them yourself goes mostly unacknowledged, much less discussed.

As more and more of my friends become grandparents, I occasionally experience a visceral feeling that’s already familiar to me. It takes me back to the years in which I was grappling with childlessness – a sense of not belonging, of being left behind, left out, different. I’d enjoyed a long reprieve from these emotions, so was surprised to be made aware of them again. When learning to cope with not being a parent, it never crossed my mind that I’d later be dealing with not being a grandparent. So much effort went into managing the present that I never considered consequential future challenges. Of course, though, non-parents become non-grandparents.

Eager to read about the experiences of others, I searched for articles on the subject. All I found, however, were stories about the loss parents feel when their own children don’t reproduce. While this is no doubt painful, it is different from the double emptiness of those with neither children nor grandchildren.

The grief at the heart of it all, of infertility, is unique and tough, in part because you’re grieving something abstract. There’s no individual to mourn, only the lack of one. There’s no date of birth to record, no body to bury, no photos to trigger memories. You ride a rollercoaster of hope and despair for many years, in some cases decades, and it’s only when there is zero hope of pregnancy that the rollercoaster grinds to a halt. At this point you’re faced with a new task – of getting to the other side of anguish. Finding the freedom to get on with a different kind of life to that you’d always envisaged for yourself. Coming to a place of acceptance.

Non-grandparent grief is different. There’s never any hope, only the clear knowledge that you’ll never be able to hold the offspring of your offspring. Your genetic line has ended; the family tree will stop with you; none of your traits will be passed on. Sure, there’s pleasure in being around step-grandchildren, god-grandchildren and the grandchildren of your friends, but it’s not quite the same as holding your own flesh and blood.

During your childbearing years, friends with children can be very supportive and understanding. Some, however, can be thoughtlessly hurtful. Unhelpful comments I’ve been subjected to include: “Ah you’re so lucky, you can do whatever you like whenever you choose”; “You get more sleep than me. You can’t know what it’s like”; “I envy your freedom”; “You don’t have any of these creatures tying you down”; “What would you know, not having children of your own?”

As a general practitioner caring for ill children for much of my career (now retired), I sometimes sensed that parents, when finding out that I wasn’t a mother, expected me to be lacking in some way. But not being a mother didn’t make me any less competent in diagnosing meningitis in a child, any less capable of inserting a drip in a dehydrated baby, any less wise in advising on behavioural issues. Most babies are delivered by male obstetricians, who are well able to excel at it despite having been neither pregnant nor given birth themselves.

There are moments, though, when I pity grandparents. Specifically, when they refer to grandparenting as their main purpose in life.

The emotions of infertility vary widely. There can be a sense of worthlessness, hopelessness and helplessness. Years of yearning and struggling are often accompanied by self-judgment and even hidden shame. Coping with invasive procedures and hormonal treatments can be exhausting. There’s often guilt from feeling frustrated, angry and a sense that it’s all so unjust. It can feel shameful to be envious of friends who fall pregnant easily and to resent those who choose abortion for convenience when planning their families. Marriages and relationships often buckle under the pressure of the rollercoaster ride.

Having come to terms with the absolute of not having children, I’ve worked hard to craft a new life out of the consequences. I don’t mean to turn the negative into a positive; I just made the most of life without children. The upside was having the time and energy to give to other pursuits, the ability to find purpose and meaning in things other than parenthood.

Credit: Paula Sanz Caballero

Catching up with friends today means looking at photos and videos of their gorgeous grandchildren, listening to them talk about their babysitting duties, counting how many little ones they are up to now and trying to remember all their names and birthdays. Even if you’re genuinely interested, as I am, it can feel very one-sided and isolating. Too often there’s seemingly no awareness that I’m not part of such a world. With a smile, I often share photos of my cats and of the youngsters of my distant relatives overseas. It feels lesser, but I do it anyway. Still the penny doesn’t drop, no comment is made, no recognition is given of what I lack.

I envy my friends whose lives are enriched by being grandparents, but despite believing my envy to be justifiable and healthy, I hide it, afraid of being judged as selfish or as not having got over the original grief of infertility. The fact is, it’s a very real grief that continues forever.

There are moments, though, when I pity grandparents. Specifically, when they refer to grandparenting as their main purpose in life, the thing that gives them most fulfilment in their later years. Our identities surely go deeper than that. I’ve had a lifetime of finding meaning and purpose in pursuits other than children, and done my best to contribute to society at large, to make a difference in the world.

What would make a difference to me and others like me? Simple awareness that we’re not part of the club that the majority of older people are members of. I don’t want to constantly talk about my lack of grandchildren or how it makes me feel. Nor to be pitied or patronised. I don’t want my friends to stop showing me pictures of their grandchildren or talking to me about them. I’d just like an acknowledgement that being without them is different – and an interest shown in my life, knowing that it’s not the same as theirs.

I write this for all the other non-grandparents in the world, female and male. You are not alone.

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