Silent Stories: Sharing Hope, Love, and Loss after Miscarriage

By Rachael N. Miller

1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage. If so many women experience this painful loss, why are so many of them silent about the issue? Many walk through the aftermath feeling betrayed and alone. Through sharing her story, Rachael Miller hopes to invite other women to open up about their wounds from pregnancy loss and begin their journey t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rachael Nicole Miller
• Release date: Apr 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732171152

Rachael N. Miller

-Rachael N. Miller is a young author, artist, and Chick-fil-a employee currently adventuring in Greeley, CO. She has been scrapping together stories since she was twelve, and started off by writing poor fan fiction off her favorite series: Redwall. Her first young adult novel The Black Robin of Ferryn was written as a school project when she was fifteen; she went on to self-publish the finalized work her senior year in high school. Rachael dreams about writing more fiction, as well as several non-fiction works--but she's pretty slow at getting things done and struggles with a condition called "Procrastinating Perfectionism". -Rachael was homeschooled by her amazing mother-who instilled a love of English and writing in her daughter at a young age. Her mom had a big hand in editing, coaxing, and resuscitating life back into Rachael's pitiful first novel and actually making it something worth reading. Since graduating from home-education, Rachael has gone on to achieve her Associates in Arts at Mid-plains Community Collage in North Platte, NE. -In 2014, she got hitched to a green-eyed elf and they go on many everyday adventures together. In October 2015 they lost their first child, Butterfly, to a blighted ovum miscarriage. Rachael has a passion for sharing her story as well as inspiring other women to share their own. -She involves herself in way too many activities such as: writing, reading, photography, art, knitting, church choir, blogging, and editing novels for friends. You can follow her blog here (https://rwardyn.wordpress.com/) and her photography Facebook page here (https://www.facebook.com/Shutterstoryphotograpy/)

Book preview

Silent Stories

Sharing Hope, Love, and Loss After Miscarriage

By

Rachael N. Miller

Dedication

To Butterfly Dance Butterfly,

dance, twirl, and dream in His presence.

Daddy and Mommy love you.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter One:  How Our Stories Began

Chapter Two:  The Dreams We Dream

Chapter Three:  The Death of Hope

Chapter Four:  The Lies We Believe

Chapter Five:  Living Wounded

Kelsey’s Story:  Ectopic Pregnancy

Chapter Six:  Yearning for Comfort

Marti’s Story:  Recurrent Miscarriage

Chapter Seven:  The Ugly Face of Bitterness

Chapter Eight:  When God Speaks

Nicole’s Story:  Baby Belle

Chapter Nine:  How He Grieves

From the Guy’s Perspective:  How Men Grieve

Chapter Ten:  Sharing Our Stories

A Conversation with Stephanie

Chapter Eleven:  Looking Forward

Gratitude

Endnotes

Bibliography

Copyright

About the Author

Introduction

It is October 13, 2016—one full year since we lost our baby. Today is as bright, warm, and colorful as that one was. Surprisingly, Sorrow has not made her visit to me yet. I have acknowledged this day for what it is; and for the moment, that seems enough.

A year ago today was probably not the exact day my body miscarried our child. Nor is it the anniversary of when my body wised up to the fact that it was no longer pregnant and did the things bodies do when attempting to go back to normal mode. Today marks the remembering of when we knew of our loss. Long before my hormone- tricked body realized that there was no baby filling my inside, we knew it, my husband and I.

Today I remember.

People falsely assume that you must be completely finished battling a problem before you can have any say about it; as if you must have fully arrived to the top of the mountain before you can look back and comment on the view. With all honesty, I feel like I’m still climbing— reaching, growing—from this experience. My miscarriage has shaped my story in subplots and undertones that I couldn’t begin to describe. I wouldn’t call myself an expert in fertility or prenatal growth; I have a hard enough time understanding how my own body works. This book may be a little bit of therapy for me. If I can write it out— maybe share a story or two with other women who have felt this pain—maybe I can try to wrap my head and heart around it a little better.

I’m not sure how I’m going to write this story, only that it needs to be written.

They say 1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage.1 One. In. Four. That’s not just a number you can sniff at. Women of all walks of life, married and unmarried, older and young, healthy and sick: so many of us have faced this same pain, carried this same burden.

And for so much of it we’ve felt alone. Miscarriage is not talked about in common circles.

We don’t share our miscarriage stories like the ones about our high school sweethearts or our struggles at work.

Perhaps this is because we understand that most people will not understand unless they have been through it themselves. Miscarriage does not seem as drastic as losing an infant or a two year old to a tragic accident. People understand how one can still be grieving months and years down the road from something as traumatic as that. But what do you say to someone who grieves for a child they never met?

Miscarriages are our private disappointments—our dreams shattered inside a vacuum. We gather the pieces of our trampled ambitions and fear to hope for the next time. Women who lose a child often feel like they are failures at being women. We keep that failure closed up, locked tight against the prying questions of our friends and the people around us.

We lose our ability to hope.

It wasn’t until I posted my story via an online blog post that I felt like I could really begin to heal. Once I shared my story in a small way I was astonished at how many women I had known for years that came forward and opened up about their experiences with miscarriage. It was as if the floodgates had opened and women all around me were saying: Me too! Me too! This happened to me, and I finally have permission to share about it.

I hope to give other women permission to grieve, permission to share.

Permission to remember.

You. The woman, the mother, the reader.

You matter. Your lost child matters. Your story matters.

Come share with me.

-RNM

Chapter One

How Our Stories Begin

Three blinking lights. My sleep-weighed eyes widened as I stared at my fertility thermometer. Red, yellow, and green flashed in unison on the screen.

Hm, that’s interesting.

Hmm? My husband rolled on his side, What is it?

There’s three blinking lights on my thermometer this morning, I swallowed, That’s never happened before.

What’s that mean?

It means… it thinks I might be pregnant. Silence.

Sam sighed, a low sob. We’re not ready for that yet. Panic strained his voice.

It’s not for sure. I felt hot. The lights are blinking which means there is only a possibility of that being the case. Don’t freak out.

He quieted.

We’ll buy a pregnancy test and check soon. I tried to reassure him, excited and terrified in the same moment. It’ll be alright.

* * * *

Dear Friend, welcome to the story.

I may not know you, or your own story, but I want to invite you into mine. Your loss may be recent—the pain still facing you as you wake to each day, or you may have years in between where the ache has subsided to a memory. You may be reading this as a young mother who has just lost her first baby, someone who has had multiple miscarriages over the years, or even just a friend who would like to support someone as they grow toward healing (thank you, by the way). Whoever you are, welcome.

My miscarriage is not the end of my story, but it is something that has shaped me into the woman I am today; so, for that reason alone, I count it as something important that I can share about. Wherever you’re at today, chances are that your losses have shaped you, too. I believe that is a story worth telling.

My story does not begin with the loss, though that is where many writers begin their narrative; it begins with the having and then the losing. With the knowing of the miracle happening inside me before the grieving over the fact that it was no longer there. If you have experienced this loss, you know that at one time you believed you had something—something precious that was lost to you.

We’re going to look at the beginning of our stories together, you and I. There’s a lot to learn from the you before the loss, as well as the you after.

Welcome in.

* * * *

Edited excerpt from a journal entry on Monday, September 14th, 2015

I might be pregnant…

Being pregnant, (the possibility) is rather frightening. The only reason I think I may be is because my fertility thermometer thinks I might be. I haven’t had my period for a long time, but I’ve had that happen before because I’m irregular.

Sometimes my tummy hurts—but not to the extent that I’d expect if I was pregnant. ☹ I just wish I could find out right away. This is the first time the thermometer has ever blinked all three lights before, even when my period didn’t come for nearly 2 months. [Previous occasion]I guess we’ll see if it’s another false alarm or not. If it is a false alarm, it’s the scariest one so far.

-RNM

* * * *

Ever since I was really young I knew I wanted to be a mom. I had other dreams—at first to be a doctor—I loved caring for people, then a veterinarian—I loved animals, a writer, a counselor, a speaker for conferences maybe, but nothing so pressing or important in the long run as being a stay-at-home wife and mother someday. Growing up in a Christian, homeschool family, I always admired my mother as a woman. She was creative and capable of teaching the four of us kiddos. A part of me always wanted to be like her—teaching my own children and devoting my life to being their mom.

I knew motherhood wasn’t to what many aspired. I knew some people wouldn’t understand why I wasn’t planning on pursuing college much further after my associate’s degree. I knew it was unglamorous, often thankless, and very difficult work, but it was my dream… and still is.

The me before my miscarriage is found stepping into a new chapter of life. My husband Sam and I had just moved to a new town, uprooting ourselves from Nebraska—the only state I had ever lived in—to the little city of Greeley, Colorado. We had moved for several reasons, schooling for Sam at the University of Northern Colorado being the main one.

Sam and I had just celebrated our first year of marriage in July. I’d met my husband when we were both about five and six years old at swimming lessons. Our families had kids that were close in age, and I soon became fast friends with them all, especially Sam’s older sister Olivia. It wasn’t until the Millers moved to Colorado and then later when they moved back to North Platte that Sam and I started spending time together and discovering that we were interested in each other. After a year of getting to know one another better, and a year and a half of dating, Sam asked me to marry him. In a little less than four months, we were man and wife.

Living close to family in Nebraska had its perks, but we both felt that it was time for a change of pace. We needed to get out and try our hand at living more independently as a couple. Colorado had been Sam’s home for eight years; it was always on his heart and mind to move back. Now, here we were in a new state, new town, jobless, and looking for a new start.

And then there were three flashing lights. Our story had taken an unexpected turn.

* * * *

Should we tell my family when we go down this weekend? I smiled at Sam, hoping for an affirmative answer.

We don’t really know if you are pregnant, do we? He looked worried, his forehead wrinkled.

I shook my head, "Babe, I took two pregnancy tests, both of them positive. They say that it is very rare that you’d get a positive test without being pregnant. Plus, the

lines were very bold. I think it’s a good possibility."

He sighed, "I just wish we knew for sure, it would be awkward to announce