Sensitivity

One thing you might discover when you announce that you’re going to become a parent is that lots of people you know have been quietly struggling with this very thing, often for years.

If you’re a man, it’s possible—or perhaps even probable—that you don’t talk about this stuff with your male friends. Or if you’ve been through the nightmare of failed conception or miscarriage, you may have been (understandably) reluctant to talk about it with friends and family. Women too may feel uneasy about sharing their stories and experiences with other women. It’s a painful and complex situation and dealing with it is a huge challenge for everyone involved.

I remember being at an after-work drinks thing when I was 24 or 25, making conversation with older co-workers – one of whom had kids. After he finished an anecdote about his young son, I turned to the other man and asked “are you planning to have kids?”. “You can’t ask him that!”, the dad jokingly (but firmly) said to me. “Why not?!” I protested lightly, but genuinely not understanding what he was getting at. Thankfully not judging me for my ignorance, he outlined the not-unlikely possibility that our friend may not be able to have children (and therefore probably wouldn’t want to begin this conversation down the pub that night). I blushed and moved on.

Another memory from years ago: being at a family party chatting to my cousin, one of several incredible women in my extended family who’ve brought up wonderful, amazing kids in often challenging and painful circumstances. We were mid-conversation when the teenage son of someone’s new boyfriend walked over to chat to me. I introduced him to my cousin and pointed out her kids who were running around. He was interested and somehow we ended up talking about her (fairly young) age when she had her first child. Out of the blue, the young man blurted out “how come you didn’t just get an abortion?”.

All credit to my cousin: she didn’t even blink or react, and calmly explained to the well-meaning (but worryingly oblivious) young man that she’d planned to love her child whatever the circumstances and to raise and take responsibility for it the moment she knew she was pregnant. We moved the conversation onto safer ground.

I mention these stories to highlight the naïvety and ignorance of young men – we can be dense and foolish at times and not make the mental leaps required of us. I cringe even now when I remember the man I’ve been and the things I’ve probably unthinkingly said, hurting people I love without realising.

Last year, when we made the calls and sent messages and social media posts to tell our friends and family that we had a safe, healthy baby on the way, it was tinged with guilt and awareness of the people who’d read them and feel a hollow ache inside at their own losses. We felt lucky beyond measure that we’d conceived and got through the various scans and tests safely. Our friends were happy for us, whatever their struggles had been – which in itself is another sign of how incredible people can be: dealing with enormous, life-altering catastrophes, and yet continuing to be capable of feeling happy for us while simultaneously envying what we had.

When you get that happy news, don’t feel like you can’t celebrate or tell people. God knows we need some positive news in the current climate, right? But by the same token: don’t assume because you haven’t heard about it, that everybody else you know is doing okay. They might not want to talk about it, and that’s their right. But ask them if they want to talk, if you can. They might not all be as brave as my friend Annie, who wrote poignantly and honestly about her struggles with all this earlier this year. But they might open up if you offer support and love.

But above all, be aware that these things are happening all the time to people you know and love. Cherish your good fortune and luck, but be there for them and be sensitive, too.

Baby Loss Awareness Week is held annually from 9 to 15 October.