Other people's news...

My Mum rang me yesterday for a chat. We talked about my nieces, Hannah and Ella, and my nephew, Hugo. I’m getting a sewing machine for my birthday and Mum and I talked about having some sewing days – I think Mum is still in shock that I want to learn sewing!

Near the end of the telephone call Mum told me she had some news. She hesitated and I started to feel nervous that it was going to be bad news. Mum told me it was hard to tell me the news. I became even more worried then and I said to Mum to just tell me and I braced myself.

Mum asked “Guess who’s having twins?” My immediate answer was one of my Aunties, which made Mum laugh. This Aunty is in her sixties…

After suggesting a few other names I finally hit on the right couple. I think I then did a little dance of excitement.

Mum admitted that, while she is thrilled, she does find it difficult to hear about other people’s pregnancies when she knows Kirby and I can’t have children, and that she finds it hard to tell us this kind of news because it might hurt Kirby and me.

We talked for a bit longer and I reassured her that I was happy and excited for the couple concerned. I admitted that I would probably go through a few minutes of “it’s not fair – why them and why not us?”, but that this would pass pretty quickly. I think Mum was relieved to hear this, but I know she, and Dad as well, will have similar feelings and I hope they take the time to sit with them for a while, without guilt. This is not easy to do.

It surprises me just how far I have come in the last few years. The feelings of sadness and anger that other people can have children and we can’t has mellowed so much. It used to be overwhelming and prevented me from fully enjoying the news and then the arrival of a child (or children).  I don’t know whether it’s because so many people in our circle of family and friends have had children in the last few years and I’ve been forced to deal with it, or whether it’s time that has soothed the wound – maybe it’s both. Whatever the reason, I am happy that I can deal with the news that family or friends are expecting a baby (or babies!).

But in saying all of this, sometimes I do feel angry. This anger is not at the fact that other people are having children, but that we can’t have children as well. It isn’t fair. It will never be fair.

One of my favourite books is “Women Who Run With the Wolves” by Clarissa Pinkola-Estés. She talks about rage left over from old injuries. She describes this kind of rage as being like shrapnel, which every now and then can twist and turn and hurt. That’s how my rage about not having children feels. I’m okay most of the time, but then the twisting happens (often with news such as friends or family expecting children).

Over time I have learnt how to bring healing to the injury time and again. I don’t fight it – instead I withdraw to think about and deal with the original wound, which was finding out we can’t have children. The rage starts to diminish when I look at it and be with it for a while, without trying to judge it or judge myself. I don’t feel guilty for these feelings of rage anymore. They are what they are and they are natural. Once they go again I can reengage in life again with peace and joy.

It takes work, but I can now be my own healer. 

Pain and me...

This post follows on from last week’s post about pain. As I realised that we wouldn’t be having children I grieved, and I felt pain like none I had felt before. I was angry. I was hurt. I thought life would never be good again.

Eventually, though, the pain became less and less and then my days started to be filled with hope and an interest in a different life to the one I thought I’d have – the one I thought Kirby and I would share. This took time.

But every now and then the pain returns with great power and depth. I feel like the wound is raw. I feel inconsolable. I am angry.

I used to try and deal with the pain by focussing on it so much that all I could see was despair.  I saw only what I didn’t have and I wanted that and nothing else. I felt so awful that I wanted to tear at my skin until it bled so that I would have something to show people that represented how much I was hurting. That’s the problem pain of the heart and soul over a broken arm or leg – nobody else can see it.

I thought that to get rid of the pain I had to face it head on and exterminate it. But, that didn’t work. Focussing on the pain just seemed to give it some kind of extra power that hurt me even more.

I’ve realised that, instead of focussing on the pain, I am better off giving it space and honouring it in a way. It’s almost seems that in saying to it “okay, you’re here, here’s a spot for you until you are ready to go” takes away its power. It doesn’t have to force its way into my life with me pushing as much as I can to keep it away. It sits, it ponders, and then it leaves.

In the past few years I’ve developed a list of things to do when I feel the pain again. These things may or may not work for you, but I thought I would share them here as some inspiration for you:

Slow down and take time

The first thing I do is slow down. I put aside as much as I can – housework, my job if possible (even if it’s only for ten minutes, and I admit I’m lucky that I work at home), and other responsibilities. I move through my thoughts and feelings and observe them without getting involved. I let them be.

Then I take my time. I go through what I have to do in a more focussed way than usual. I really concentrate on washing the dishes, or playing with my dogs, or changing the cat litter.

I make sure that whatever activity I am doing I am not using it to completely avoid the pain I am feeling. Rather, I do my activities fully aware that my pain is sitting in the corner waiting for me.

Getting out into nature

I love the natural world. I love water and the night time sky in particular, as both seem to give me a sense of peace and that somehow I am going to be okay – regardless of what happens. That being okay for me isn’t limited to this lifetime, but could be after life, in a next life, or whatever happens after I die.

When I feel that pain and anger, if it’s night time, I go and sit outside and look at the stars. I think about what might be out there, how far away some of those stars are, and how some of them  no longer exist and haven’t for a long, long time. I feel very comforted by that.

I may also go to the wetlands near our house and sit and watch the water and the birds all around. I listen to the birds call to each other, I feel the wind on my face, I may realise a few tears are trickling down my face.

My pain is there with me. It is sitting right there with me. It still wants me to give it my undivided attention, but I don’t. I let it be and let nature soothe it.

Remembering…

Sometimes I find it nice to meet my anger with joy over the children I might have had. I guess this sounds strange. What I mean is that I give my imagination an opportunity to think about those little souls and what they might have been like, what they might have been interested in, what types of mischief they would have gotten into. I think about their hair colour, their eyes, and I let myself feel their little hands in mine.

This meets the pain, for me, by saying to the pain “you’re here, sure, but I won’t let you take them from me.” I hold on to the happiness I have when I think about my children, and my anger finds it doesn’t have much room to stay anymore.

I also like to light a candle, or some incense, and focus on it in reflection about what could have been. Often I feel very wistful – a bit sad and a bit happy. Once again, my pain finds it doesn’t have a lot of room to stay.

Company or solitude…

When pain comes to visit I usually prefer some solitude first. I like to let things be for a while. I don’t want anyone to come in and try to fix it all for me. Nobody can do that anyway. People who love me want me to feel better, but I do need to give space to my pain and be with it in my own way for a while.

There are times, though, when I want company. I usually go and find Kirby and get a hug, but sometimes I will have a chat with a friend or family member. I tell them how I’m feeling, and that can really help.

When it gets real bad…

Pain can be persistent, and with my health conditions, such as depression and epilepsy, I need to be aware that sometimes feelings can cross over from being with me to being destructive. When I feel that this could happen I will seek professional help. I might talk to my doctor who treats me for depression, I might seek counselling. It really depends on what I feel I need at the time.

Self-esteem…

Just as a final word, I used to think I was a failure when I felt pain and anger, and even more so if I sought professional help to deal with those feelings. I thought that I was weak. Now I realise that this isn’t so. Feelings such as pain and anger are part of being human. They are part of me being human.

I don’t welcome them with open arms, but when feelings such as pain and anger arrive, I give them some space, I look after myself, and I watch them without engaging with them, and then I watch them go again. Before, when I used to fight these feelings head-on I always lost, but now, most of the time, they gracefully exit on their own and my life is fully my own again.

Pain...

This post has been inspired by a comment made regarding my blog entry dated the 26^th November last year, named “Empty arms and sweet cats”. This reader has been through four rounds of IVF and has had two miscarriages, and is now coming to terms with the reality that she might never be a mother.

She wrote that she tries to be grateful for all the wonderful things in her life, but that the pain doesn’t seem to go away.

I can relate to what she is going through. When we first realised that we weren’t going to be having kids, and we made the decision to enjoy the life we did have, I thought that it was going to be it with the whole babies’ thing. I had a lot to be thankful for – my home, my family, my husband, my pets, my friends.  I just had to move on and live the life I did have. I thought it was going to be quite simple. A few tears, telling people we were stopping IVF, words of condolence from family and friends, and all the dark emotions would go away.

I was so very wrong. With every loss in life there has to be a stage of mourning. The realisation that we were never going to have our own child was a huge loss, and the mourning that came with it was very painful and at times seemed never ending.  I was angry, I was sad, I tried to negotiate with the universe that if I did this or that then perhaps then we could have a child, I was numb. I was in pain.

There is a common belief that grieving takes a set path through the stages of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I believed this too, and when I got to the stage of acceptance (the first time…) Kirby and I had a ceremony to say goodbye to our children and to place a point in time from which we could move on. I was looking forward to putting all that pain aside.

But we didn’t move on. Not long after the ceremony I was outside with my anger, pain, and sadness. Grief wasn’t done with me. I was shocked and felt like a failure.

So, five years later have I finished grieving? Has the anger and sadness and pain gone away? No, I haven’t, and, no, it hasn’t. It is true that the pain is less intense, most of the time, and that I am not overwhelmed by emotions as often as I used to be, but feelings of grief still visit from time to time.

In our modern day society there seems to be messages everywhere telling us to be happy and positive and then life will be wonderful all the time. And if we find ourselves not feeling happy and positive, if we can’t find a way to make ourselves happy and positive straight away, then we are failing.

This is simply not true and it is setting us up – setting everyone up – for failure in more ways than one. We think we fail because we are not happy, we don’t give ourselves the opportunity to meet with those darker emotions, and we then don’t have the opportunity to grow and deepen as human beings by reflecting on those emotions. We want them gone, and with them goes something so very important.

I’m going to leave it here today, and my next entry will be more about the times those darker emotions do come calling, how I deal with them by honouring them, and how these darker emotions are something I no longer fear as much as I used to.

To end, here is a quote from one of my favourite books by Thomas Moore, “Care of the Soul”:

“The soul presents itself in a variety of colors, including all shades of gray, blue, and black. To care for the soul, we must observe the full range of all its colorings, and resist the temptation to approve only of white, red, and orange – the brilliant colors.”

Moore, Thomas (1994) Care of the Soul, HarperCollins, New York 

Thomas Moore's website: http://careofthesoul.net

About last week…

I wanted to talk briefly about last week’s post “What kind of mother…”.

Sometimes in my posts, like last week, I can sound incredibly harsh on myself and sometimes I wonder whether I should share such dark emotions and self-judgment on “When You Can’t Have Kids.” I don’t want people to think I am a negative person or that these types of thoughts and emotions are a significant part of my life.

So, why do I talk about the darker side of me?

I decided when I started “When You Can’t Have Kids” that I would be very honest with you all as to the experiences I have. This includes the good times, but it must also include the not so good. It must include those experiences that hurt, are frustrating and are hard to admit to. Like everyone, I’d rather people think I have it all together, that I am happy all the time and that I have brilliant self-esteem. But, I don’t.

I am mostly a happy and positive person and I love my imperfect life, but sometimes that dark little voice that says “You are terrible, you are not good enough” pops up in my mind and heart.

I want this blog to help people who are in a similar situation to me. It’s true that no two people have exactly the same experiences, but I am sure that everyone has times where those dark emotions call by for a while. If I share mine, then I hope it will help other people to realise that these emotions are normal – they are nothing to be ashamed of. We are all human and that means we have low times. Let me say that again – we ALL have low times.

Happy me in Port Germein, South Australia,
with Conservation Volunteers Australia

I do – and I want you to remember that when you do, I am here thinking of you, understanding as much as I can without being you, and sending you a great, big universal hug.

Lastly, I want to thank Milly and Robin Mary for their comments on last week’s post – your support for me means the world. And it makes me realise that while I want to be there for others, others are there for me too – and that touches my heart more than you know. 

The darker side of me...

I know that everyone has thoughts that come along that they would rarely admit to as they point to a darker side within them. Nobody wants to acknowledge that they have a side of them that thinks things that are horrible and sometimes mean, let alone admit to other people that these thoughts occur.

I have had such thoughts this week, and as I mentioned in my last blog entry I thought long and hard about whether I should write about them and share them with you all. I have decided that being honest and sharing them is good for two reasons – firstly, by writing about them and acknowledging them I believe I will take away their power, and, secondly, by sharing them perhaps some of you who have had similar experiences will realise you are not alone.

So, here’s what happened…

There was a show in Australia from the late 1980s to the early 1990s called “Acropolis Now”, which was a comedy based on Greek heritage. One of the actors, Mary Coustas, played Effie and she was hysterically funny.

Last Sunday night, on a current affairs television show, Mary and her husband, George, shared their story about their difficulties in having a child. I didn’t see the show, but I read about it a few days later and I was naturally moved. They had tried for 10 years to have a child, and Mary had recently had a book published “All I know: a memoir of love, loss and life.”

Mary fell pregnant in 2010, when she was in her mid-forties. A scan revealed she was having fraternal twins. It would have been such a joyous occasion. But, at the nine week scan a third heartbeat was found. There were triplets – two paternal and one fraternal. But, was it good news?

Mary and George’s doctor was not happy and explained the risks of having three babies, especially when two of them were paternal. There are risks of cerebral palsy, low birth rate, and complications for the mother in terms of gestational diabetes, among others.

After consulting with five different specialists, Mary and George decided to do a reduction, where the twins would be aborted by having a substance injected to stop their hearts. They would die and would most likely be reabsorbed into Mary’s body.

The reduction was undertaken, but a few days later a scan revealed that one of the twins was still alive. They did another reduction.

There is a risk to the remaining baby when a reduction occurs, and sadly the remaining baby, a girl Mary and George called Stevie, was still born at 22 weeks.

The good news is that Mary is now pregnant again with one baby, due at the end of this year, and everything seems to be going well.

 As I read the article and found out about the triplets, the reduction, the stillbirth of Stevie, the book and that Mary is now expecting again, I felt my rage growing stronger and stronger. I was fuming. I cried my eyes out in frustration and the unfairness of it all. What was it that bothered me?

Here is the dark part – my thoughts as they were then:

           Multiple pregnancies:

o   It’s not fair that they got a multiple pregnancy when I can’t even get pregnant with one baby.

Then the reductions:

o   How could they kill their own children?

o   How come they got pregnant with three children, only to throw two of them away? Why couldn’t I have had them?

o   How could they go through a second reduction? Why did the remaining twin have to die?

The book:

o   It’s not fair that just because she’s famous she got her book published. And it’s a bit raw waiting to announce her pregnancy until after her book was released. What about my book and my experiences?

Stevie:

o   Why did they get to hold Stevie when I never got to hold my children? I would give anything just to hold my children for just a little bit, instead of having only two black and white photos of embryos to remember them by.

Pregnant again:

o   It’s not fair that they are pregnant again, when I can’t have a child and I have done nothing wrong.

So, I’m not always the understanding and compassionate person that I would rather the world think that I am.

These thoughts and questions and the associated feelings lasted into the next day. I was so ashamed to think that these were coming from me. How could I think so badly about someone I didn’t even know? I didn’t know their full story, and I know that they are not bad people – so where was all this coming from?

To be honest, I still don’t know where it all came from or why. I could say it was unacknowledged grief on my part, or that there’s a hidden rage within me at the unfairness that we can’t have a baby, or that I am frustrated that my experience seems to be less important than someone who is famous, or that…

I’m not sure it’s any of those reasons.  I can’t make excuses for what I thought or how I felt. It was all what it was. The scariest part for me was that I didn’t know how I was going to break out of those negative and shameful thoughts and feelings. I hated it and I detested myself. It was like another me had taken me over and it was dark and cruel.

In the last few days I’ve learnt something more about compassion – something that I never realised before. Compassion isn’t always a natural response. Sometimes we have to make a decision to be compassionate. And that is what I realised I had to do. I had to decide to be compassionate.

So, I have been practicing this. I can never know what it would have been like to be in the position that Mary and George were in when they considered the risks of having triplets and then making the decision to do the reduction. I don’t understand the decision because I’ve never had to make it. But I can try to understand what a terrible decision it must have been for them to make. Having to choose one of your children over another must be one of the most heart wrenching experiences anyone could go through. I am so sorry that this happened to them. After reading more about their tragic experience I found out that they consulted five different specialists – it wasn’t a spur of the moment decision. It wasn’t easy. They are not bad people – if anything they are people who truly wanted to do the best they could for their children. Thinking about it now I want to cry and I want to wrap my arms around all of them – Mary, George and the triplets.

In thinking about it – all the other thoughts and questions were secondary to my upset at the reduction. These were side-issues. It seemed as though Mary and George were being rewarded after they had the reduction – at least that’s what it felt like to me initially – and I didn’t understand why they were being rewarded for such an act.

But, they aren’t really being rewarded. I’m sure that, except for being pregnant again, Mary and George would give everything back just to have Stevie turning three this year.

I think I will finish this entry now. It’s been a long one. I realise there may be negative criticism about me after this post and I am open to it, but please remember that I am only human and I am being honest where I could have chosen to keep all this to myself.

There is still a hole in my heart which sometimes is filled with negative thoughts and emotions, but I am trying to fill it with love and compassion. It is not easy – but I am trying.

And – I have decided to read Mary’s book. I think it will be helpful for me, even if Mary and George’s story is different to mine and Kirby’s. No doubt I will write about it in a future blog entry.

Feeling bad and being okay

here’s a book called ‘The Happiness Trap’ that my Mum has ordered and is about to read. I checked it out on Amazon and it seems to be about the myth that we have to be happy all the time. I couldn’t agree more that it is a myth, and I also agree that society repeats this myth to us far too often. One part of the book talks about fairy tales and how they always end in ‘happily ever after’.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve realised that I don’t have to be happy all the time, and I can feel like shit and still be okay. I can feel angry and still be okay. I can feel down and depressed and still be okay. I don’t have to put on a brave face if I don’t want to. I can have my heart torn apart and still I am okay.

The myth of being happy all the time, I believe, does far more damage than good. It puts a pressure on people (particularly when they are already under pressure) to be something that is just not always possible.

I’m not saying that thinking positively is not worthwhile in some cases, but sometimes it just doesn’t cut it. I can think positively all I want – it still doesn’t mean we will have a baby.

I went to a course on writing last year and a lot of it was really about self-help and the power of positive thinking. Their basic message was that with the power of the mind you can achieve anything you set your mind to. I don’t want to completely disregard this opinion, but it truly is not always the case. Think about all the people who are training hard and positively thinking about winning gold in the 100 metre swimming at the upcoming Olympics – clearly not all of them are going to win it, so it kind of blows the idea that positive thinking will get you where you want to be out of the water.

I don’t want to sound negative, and I do believe that positive thinking, along with being realistic, can get you a long way. For example, I am hoping to become a published writer, and I keep envisioning my book written and published and selling. I’m giving it the best shot that I can.

With regard to babies, however, while there is a minute chance that perhaps we could have one, we have come to the realisation that it won’t happen for us, and that it is okay for us to grieve about it.

I think I will leave it there and talk more about why we won’t be trying for a child again next week. There are more reasons than our chances being slim.

What If?

The other night I was lying on the couch watching telly when I had an overwhelming urge to tell Kirby that I wanted to try IVF again. It was completely out of the blue – and it felt desperate, like if we didn’t try again I couldn’t move forward in anything.

I pictured my abdomen getting larger over time, our baby when we first met it, watching the baby grow, take its first steps, speak its first words. Everything would be perfect. And, of course, the IVF cycle would work.

I sat with the feeling for a while – enjoying the possibilities of a child in our lives. I thought about Hugo having a cousin here in Australia (he doesn’t have any and we are his only option for having one – all of his cousins are in Africa). They could pretty much grow up together as they would only be about two years apart.

The feelings I was having – the desperation, the longing – soon began to fade a little, and reality drove its way straight into the lounge room. I had a bit of a cry and a hug from Kirby as I realised that it wasn’t going to happen. For many reasons it wasn’t going to happen – some of these being the cost of IVF now, the impact on my health of doing another round, and that time spent with our child would be time spent away from Hugo. This is aside from the fact that the chances of another cycle being successful were extremely low.

I guess I’m realising that the grief and longing never truly go away. That inner need to have a child will probably be there until I die. I will always wonder about it – about what could have been. But, then, isn’t that true of many things in life, both good and bad. I wonder whether we would have bought our house at all if we’d realised we weren’t going to have children, I wonder what my life would have been like if I’d studied environmental science, I wonder where I would be now if I hadn’t met Kirby.

I guess it’s the mind’s way of showing us what could have been, so we can see what is, and in a way the feelings and grief about not having children do make me see, eventually, what we do have. We have Hugo. I’m guessing by now you’re realising just how important he is to me and how much I love that little guy. I wouldn’t swap him for the world.

Other People in Our Lives

I have had two conversations this week that have made me think about the fact it is not only Kirby and me that are affected by us not being able to have kids.

I went out to lunch with one of my dearest friends and mentioned the blog and the book I hope to make out it. She said that the book would be good for relatives and friends of people who can’t have kids as well, as it might give them some insight into what it is like for the couple concerned.

I was talking to my Mum on the phone just now and she mentioned that the daughter of a friend of hers had recently had a daughter, and she felt jealous; jealous for her and jealous for us.

Not having kids does affect Kirby and me, but it also affects our friends and family. They grieve for us and for themselves as well. My friend wonders what it would have been like for us to raise our children together (they would have been about the same age), our Mums and Dads hurt for us, as do our sisters and brothers, when they hear of other people having children. It doesn’t mean they resent other people for having children, just that they wish it could be us as well.

One insight I have had is that, in some ways, it might be easier for us. Sure, we do have moments where we are sad and sometimes angry at the way things have panned out, but for the most part we have got used to the idea and we are filling our lives up with other things such as pets and writing and Hugo and spending time with each other more than we perhaps would have been able to with kids. We see ourselves every day as being okay and moving forward (with little steps backward and times of tears amongst it all of course). Our friends and family know we are okay, but they don’t see every day that we are.

Our family and friends don’t see the alternative life we are creating every day, and instead are more likely to be impacted by news of other people’s children as in how it affects or could affect us. I guess it must seem like there is a hole in our lives that is always there and can never be filled, and it must seem that that hole is so huge to people looking in from outside.

It’s true that there is a hole, but the hole is not as scary as it once was, and we acknowledge its presence and fill it up as best we can while giving it respect. We see our lives as what could have been, but mostly for what it is, and we see that every day.

I am Woman...or am I?

One of my favourite books about women, spirituality and growth is 'Women who Run with the Wolves' by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. I pick it up every now and then and flick through a few pages - it's kind of like visiting an old mentor to remember a lesson or hear a story again.

Yesterday, when I was revisiting the wolves, some of the words really made me think. They were 'We are not meant to be puny with frail hair and inability to leap up, inability to chase, to birth, to create a life.' And, further, 'This vitalising 'taste of the wild' comes during pregnancy, during nursing their young, during the miracle of change in oneself as one raises a child.'

I am unable to birth or create a life, and I cannot taste the wild through being pregnant or giving birth. Does that mean I am less creative, or less of a woman? I used to struggle with this a great deal. I felt a failure, I felt I wasn't whole, and I felt I didn't have anything of value that I could give that would be deeply and soulfully from me.

I still feel like this from time to time, though the feeling has mellowed.

I ask myself what my value is, what my creation can be, if not that which comes through having a child. Because I am a woman and I am creative.

So, how do I taste the wild? I look at the moon, I feel the pain that comes with menstruation, I let any anger and grief that I feel wash over me, I play and laugh with the children in my life, with my pets, with my family, I watch a spider weave its web, I bury the body of a baby bird that has fallen from its nest.

How am I creative? I write, I cook, I clean, I talk with, play with and love the children in my life, I care for my garden and my animals, I work on my marraige.

There are some women who have had children who will never even sense that the wild is there, and nor will they be more creative for having had a life in them.

And I've realised that not being able to have a child does not take the wild away from me and it most certainly does not mean I am uncreative. My way is different - that's all.

Oh, and I still love 'Women who Run with the Wolves' - it is far more than the two sentences above - they need to be read in context...

Wasn't quite ready...

There appears to be a bit of a gap between my first post and this one. I think perhaps I wasn't quite ready to do a blog on not being able to have children. It's not easy to deal with sometimes, and it's not easy to write about.

The past few weeks I've found myself in tears from time to time - when hearing of friend's new babies, when having to leave from spending time with a friend or family member's child, when watching Mamma Mia' when Donna sings 'Slipping through my Fingers'. My heart breaks.

I love being with those babies and children, and I am thrilled at the birth of the children of my family and friends. But, much as I know these kids love me and I love them, I'll never have that special relationship with a child that a parent does. Nobody will ever call me Mummy.

Don't get me wrong - I am, overall, happy (extraordinarily happy) at being an Aunty to these little angels and I wouldn't swap them for anything. But I realise now that there is always going to be a scar that opens and closes in my heart - and it won't ever go away.

I think this realisation has brought me back to wanting to write this blog. Life is good, but the hurt will keep popping its head up from time to time. That's the way it's going to be - I can write honestly about not being able to have kids now. I couldn't before.