Gaps on the mantlepiece

Written in Baby Loss Awareness Week (9^th-15^th October, 2023)

I have written much before – both research focused pieces and memoir - about baby loss; my own and others. This week (9^th-15^th October) being Baby Loss Awareness Week 2023 has prompted me to write again about my own reproductive loss. An experience and subsequent identity (as a woman who following one miscarriage at 16 weeks never achieved (to my knowledge) another pregnancy and therefore remains biologically childless) that is very significant still, 38 years later. As a related aside, I have written before too about how, despite continuing to feel much grief following other losses (including the deaths of both of my parents and my husband) I live a fulfilling and happy life, full of rewarding work and loving relationships. I live alone, and mostly enjoy the solitude and the freedom is gives me but the more I reflect on this the more I realise and appreciate that it’s the very many positive people and possibilities in my life that enable me to enjoy the time I have alone. In sum, it’s a rich and complex life that I love but the legacies of loss remain.

Earlier this year I was present (online) at a talk hosted by a well-established and respected charity that, amongst other things, supports individuals and couples who have experienced baby loss. The talk focused on the making and use of memory boxes and memory cards as a way to remember a baby who has died. Speaking specifically of memory cards (which for example can provide some detail of the baby, of their family members and of events and experiences that might have been part of their lives had they lived) one speaker suggested that a nice place for displaying these would be a mantlepiece, ‘alongside memorabilia of your other children’. Having very much appreciated the discussion such far, I immediately felt the familiar, oh so familiar, feeling of difference and with it the hurt. The words (meant with the best of comforting intentions but excluding all of us who for whatever reason have no ‘other’ children) reminded me yet again not only of the gap in my heart but also of the gaps on my mantlepiece.

Last month provided another period of time for reflection and education; the 11^th-17^th September being World Childless Week. (How very glad I am that there is some time, some recognition, of the need to focus on and discuss such important life experiences.) One piece - an article in The Independent entitled ‘‘As a mother’: the worst three words in the English language’ – attracted quite a bit of attention. Bibi Lynch (2023) wrote:

And then I saw a tweet from [name of TV presenter]. Her post, about lengthy mental health waiting lists for children and young adults, read: “I cannot understand, as a mother or a journalist, how the government minister responsible can tolerate a situation where young people are waiting THREE YEARS for mental health treatment….

If you use that expression, what you are really saying is: “As a mother, I have feelings the childless don’t have.”

You feel more; you empathise more; you care more; you love more; you’re more emotionally developed; your emotions and reactions mean more; you, basically, are more – and I am less.

Much of the online comment and discussion that followed has now been redacted, some of which included considerable criticism, abuse even, of the author for her words and her feelings.

Despite the misunderstanding and the vitriol directed at her and even though I might have argued the point a little differently I am keen to say that I agree with much of what Lynch wrote. Indeed, in one of my first academic articles I wrote about how I felt that some feminists (I consider myself to be one) have prioritised motherhood, as the thing that unites women, over sisterhood. So I too have felt, and sometimes still feel, distress that our identities as non/mother, or indeed non/father, very often divide us, with the focus being on the differences between us rather than what we share. There is a current and frequent UK TV advert that upsets me very much. It’s for a water aid charity and over the footage of those with little or no access to clean water there is a celebrity explaining just how dire the situation is for many. The camera turns to focus on her and she says ‘As a mother …. ‘  Each time I see it I ask myself again just why are those three words needed? Do those of us without children not see the suffering of the children and the adults on our screen? Do we not care? Are we less likely to (if we are able) donate some money to improve the lives of those that need help (in this or other ways)? Does our status as nonparent mean we have no empathy with and for others?

Another example. Not long ago I was in a zoom meeting with colleagues from across a number of universities which included some discussion of academic activism; engaging in research that tries to make a positive change in people’s lives. About half way through one of the older participants spoke of how they were much less concerned with academic success and recognition than they once were adding ‘I’m doing this for my grandchildren now’. My internal response (I couldn’t say it out loud for I too fear being judged as bitter, toxic, sad and all the rest) was ‘well I’m doing it for all of the children and grandchildren’. I ‘say’ this not to attempt to fit in or as any kind of one-up-person-ship. I say it because of my genuine care for the present and future lives of others. As an educator (from nursery to university) I have engaged in play and learning with children and younger adults all of my working life and my friendship group includes very many young children, adolescents and young adults who bring joy into my life on a daily basis. I truly want all of their lives to be happy and fulfilling, indeed I want all children to have all possible opportunities. Why wouldn’t I?

I am regularly told by others that I am ‘motherlike/motherly’ which in the past left me feeling ambivalent; sadness and happiness bound up together. Now, and this highlights I know some healing, some acceptance, my overwhelming reaction is one of warmth. I smile when people say it just as I do when the (not biologically or traditionally related) children in my life hail me as Auntie Gayle. During World Childless week there was a series of event and talks including some hosted by the Facebook Childless Researchers group. Following one entitled ‘Reclaiming our Lives – the need for involuntary childless researchers’, which I was unable to attend, I was tagged in a post that included: ‘Loved the shout out to the matriarch of our work, Gayle Letherby’. What an honour and what a word to be associated with. What pleasure this brought me.

As must be clear to those who have read this (and any other of my writings) my feelings are complex. But whose aren’t? I’m not claiming any special status here just asking for some recognition that those of us without children (for whatever reason) think and feel as deeply about ourselves and others as those with children. In describing my own emotions surrounding my reproductive and non/parental experience and identity it’s fair to say that I feel (a lot of the time) both vexed and blessed. I can live with this and I’m grateful that there are so many people in my life who are happy to live with this version of me also. 

Returning to the gaps in my heart and my mantelpiece, I’ll end on a blessing. Not long ago I took down from the over-radiator shelf that plays the part of a mantelpiece in my living room (and stored carefully in a drawer) two pictures drawn for me by two of my youngest friends. I was staying with their grandparents the weekend of Mothering Sunday this year and the children and their mum arrived with a present, a cake and two hand-drawn cards for Nana and two hand-drawn pictures for Auntie Gayle (in one I am running a race with other members of the family and in the other reading a book with the artist). These thoughtful, beautiful, precious gifts demonstrating of course not only the children’s care for me but also that of their mother. How lucky am I.