Author: Katie

I Had a Miscarriage

/ Katie / 33 Comments

Trigger Warning: Pregnancy Loss, Miscarriage. I invite you to read this story, and I hope if you’re seeking support or connection, you find it here. But please feel free to step away, if you need to. Healing looks different for everyone. I needed stories like this, but my world isn’t the world. I just hope that if you’ve had a similar experience, you know that you are not alone, that you are loved, that your feelings are valid, that your loss is real, that it is not your fault, that your pain matters, that you weren’t foolish to be hopeful and excited, and that you deserve to be happy and whole again.  

I’ve gone back and forth about whether to tell this story.

I was pregnant.

Our positive pregnancy test.

I’m not anymore.

I had a miscarriage.

Every time I say it, every time I think about it, it hurts all over again.

This is not the news I was hoping to share. But I write stories, and so I’ll write this one.

Something More

I don’t remember ever really wanting to be a mother. I do like children. I just never wanted my own. Until I did.

My husband and I have been together for close to fourteen years. We have a good life. And for about thirteen of our years together, we felt like nothing was missing. We’ve traveled together. We’ve made lots of friends, and we’re involved in our community. We own an amazing, if needy, old house in a beautiful historic village. And we’ve got the two strangest, most wonderful pets in the world. We are happy. We usually spend our weekend days exploring the countryside, driving down dirt roads and finding new places to visit. It was on one such weekend, back in February, when things changed.

We’d spent a lovely, warm Saturday with one of our best friends. We visited a local distillery, had a drink in the sunshine sitting by a little river, and ate dinner at one of our favorite restaurants.

A photo of me, taken on the day things changed.

It was a good day. A great day, even. But when we got home in the evening, we both sort of paused walking up the stairs to our bedroom and looked at each other. In that moment, we felt the shift.  

I said, “I think I’m ready for something more.”

My husband said he was, too.

And that was that. We didn’t know what the journey might look like, but we knew that we’d be in it together, and we hoped that by the end, we’d be parents.

Was This Too Easy?

Things didn’t take long. By June, we were pregnant. The day I took the test, I wasn’t expecting a positive result. I’d been having some stomach pain, which I attributed to a busy weekend and a temporarily poor diet, and I thought it would be wise just to rule out that I might be pregnant before I took medicine or called the doctor.

The result: Two little lines.

So much hope and joy sitting in that space between two little lines.

But there was also fear.

I knew that things would be harder and more risky, given my age – 35, at the time. I’d read the statistics about chromosomal disorders and early miscarriage rates. My husband shared my anxiety, but we tried to stay positive. We got through the long days and nights together, dreaming of what our baby might look like, sound like, which of our quirks baby might share, and who this new little human would be. I was certain we were having a girl. My husband wasn’t so sure, but he was excited at the idea of tea parties and learning to braid hair. He’s a good man, and he felt so ready to be a dad.

And somehow, days turned into weeks. I was nauseous and exhausted all the time. I figured that was a good sign. But I couldn’t help feeling like it was all a little too easy. I’ve had so many friends struggle to conceive, and I felt guilty that our road had been so short. And the fear never left me.

The day of our first ultrasound, when we saw a tiny flicker, I felt relief and joy and hope like I’ve never felt before.

Our first ultrasound.

Baby was measuring exactly where it should be, with a strong, steady heart rate of 159 beats per minute. We finally felt okay to be excited and eager. It finally felt really, truly, tangibly real.

We left for a two-week vacation shortly after that first ultrasound, feeling like we could enjoy it. And we did. We visited family – my parents and my husband’s – spent time on the beach, shopped for small baby things because we felt like we finally could. And we came home the day before my 11-week ultrasound. We promised to update everyone after the appointment. In my head, I was already planning our announcement, and I was so looking forward to sharing our happy news.

The Worst Day

I couldn’t sleep the night before. I was anxious. I was excited. I knew that we’d learn the gender soon, and that the blood test we’d scheduled would tell us more about our baby. I was hoping for good results.

The morning of the appointment, I woke up early, wrote a note to our baby, and took several deep breaths. We drove to the doctor’s office, signed in, I got blood drawn, and then we waited to see the doctor.

I knew something was wrong when she couldn’t find a heartbeat with the doppler. She told me not to worry, and sent us back for an ultrasound. But I knew. I just knew.

The baby was too small. It had stopped growing at 8 weeks and 6 days. There was no heartbeat. I had miscarried, and my body hadn’t gotten the memo. I never realized anything was wrong.

They call it a missed miscarriage.

I haven’t seen my husband cry in years. He cried that day. I cried, too. I’m crying now. All that hope, all the dreams, the life we’d started planning, all of it, just gone, in the span of an hour. You have lots of time to get used to being pregnant, and to wrap your mind around being a mother. When you miscarry, you have no time at all.

August 15th.

I will remember that day forever, because it was the worst day of my life.

What Happens Next?

I am so grateful for my doctor. She is kind, casual, and easy to talk to. She told us our choices. She sent me home to think about it. She talked with us again later in the day, to answer our questions and help us choose our next step.

Because my body hadn’t registered the miscarriage, I had two options: a pill to help things along at home, or a D&C. I won’t go into details about how either one actually works, because I am not a doctor and I don’t want to share inaccurate information. I chose the D&C. I couldn’t imagine sitting at home, in pain, bleeding out my pregnancy. I just wanted things to be over.

It was scheduled for August 18th.

I am grateful to live in a time and in a state where treatment options are available to me without judgment or interference. I am grateful for the medical team that cared for me. I am grateful that the procedure was quick, and that my physical recovery has been easy so far.

My heart hasn’t healed. I know that it will, with time.

I am grateful for my husband, who has supported me and held me and walked this path with me. I hope that I have supported him, too.

Moving Forward

The only way out is through.

There is no cure for this kind of pain.

The latter half of August has been a blur. We have good moments and bad moments. At our worst, we are angry, sad, and hopeless. We are deeply, relentlessly worried about trying again and losing another pregnancy. At our best, we are hopeful, and we’ve been able to smile and laugh and be happy. And then we feel bad all over again, because being momentarily happy makes us feel like this experience wasn’t real, like we’re not treating this tragedy like we should, like we’re forgetting the two months that we spent loving the new, growing life we’d created together, and like we were foolish to even think this might happen for us.

I haven’t blamed myself. I know nothing I did caused this, and nothing I could have done would have prevented it. But in my darkest moments, I have struggled to see the way out of this grief. Before, I could visualize a future with our child. Now, that future is hazy, foggy, and wrapped up in a trauma I know I’ll be processing for a long time.

But there is a future.

There is.

I know that if we are meant to be parents, it will happen.

We’re going to try again.

I know we can’t control the outcome. It’s a risk we’re both willing to take, and we’ll take it together. I don’t know when we’ll feel ready, but I know that day will come.

In the meantime, I’m focusing on being kind to myself, on supporting my husband, on getting back to normal, on writing and reading and creating, and on giving myself grace and forgiveness when I slip into that dark, angry, hopeless place.  

I will heal. We will heal. There is light and joy at the end of this. It’s there waiting for us. I don’t know exactly what our future looks like, but I know that we’ll be happy again.

Why Did I Write This?

I write when I’m happy, and when I’m angry, and when I’m sad. I write to process my emotions, and to share my thoughts, and because I love stories. I write because putting words together in just the right way is its own kind of magic.

I wrote this because I needed to. I needed to get this down on paper. And I wanted to do that now, when these feelings are still fresh – painfully fresh – because I wanted to be as honest and as open as possible. It’s not the most eloquent thing I’ve ever written. I don’t care.

I also wrote this because I sought out stories like mine, and reading them made me feel less alone. It’s an isolating, terrifying, traumatic experience, losing a pregnancy. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. But it happened to me, and it’s happened to so many other women.

And I wrote this because we live in a time when the future of women’s reproductive care is frighteningly unclear, and I need people to understand that pregnancy is not health neutral, and it’s not certain, and positive outcomes are absolutely not guaranteed.

But more than anything, I wrote this because women deserve to tell our stories. What happened to me could happen to any woman. It’s not a shameful secret, though I don’t enjoy talking about it. I have been amazed at the number of women who’ve comforted me, and told me that they’ve gone through this, too, or worse, or that someone they love has had a similar experience. I had no idea there were so many of us. I hate that there are so many of us. But here we are, just taking one breath after another, living with this pain and not saying a word.

So, here are my words. I hope they help someone. I hope they reach you, if you need them.       

Annie is a beach dog???

/ Katie / 10 Comments

Y’all, I just had to share one more picture from our beach getaway.

Now that we’ve been home for a week, Annie is up to her usual antics – barking, guarding the back window against deer and groundhogs, generally being sort of loud and energetic.

She was a different dog at the beach. As you can see.

Calm, sleepy, relaxed, easy-going. I’m beginning to think our country puppy who loves the snow and cold is actually A BEACH DOG! Who knew?

Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?

There Is a Time (A Poem)

/ Katie / 15 Comments

There is a time for
all things –
for grief,
love,
and change,
and for
the way forward.
There is space
enough
in this world to
feel,
to learn,
to see,
and to grow.
This, we know,
even in our worst moments,
and on our
saddest,
sweetest,
shortest,
longest days.
We don’t get to
choose
the minute
or the place,
but they belong to us.
We are
made
to live.

There’s always time…

/ Katie / 29 Comments

…for one last sunrise.

This is from yesterday, bright and early, as we were packing up and getting ready to head home from a lovely and much-needed vacation. I don’t know what it is about sunrises on the beach, but I just can’t enough of them.

Beach Break!

/ Katie / 4 Comments

I’ll be taking a writing break next week to really enjoy some family time and of course some long days on the beach. 😊 I’ll be back on August 15th. For now, enjoy some pictures of my mother-in-law’s beautiful garden, which we have been enjoying so much these last few days.

And until next time, I wish y’all happy creating!

The Day My Grandfather Met the Devil (A Short Story)

/ Katie / 20 Comments

My grandfather was a deeply religious man, but he never went to church. Grandma went every Sunday, in her best clothes and her favorite jewelry, but Grandpa always stayed home. I asked him about this once, when I was younger, before he passed away.

It was a summer afternoon, and we sat together, rocking back and forth slow and lazy on the front porch swing, looking out at the mountains.

I pointed to the little steeple in the distance, the one that belonged to my grandmother’s church, and asked, “Why don’t you ever go?”

Grandpa answered. “This is God’s own country. Why would I want to be stuck in there,” he said, and pointed to the steeple, “with all those other people, when I could be out here,” and he gestured around us, and towards the ridge, “where it’s just the Lord and the land and me?”

And then he told me a story.

I don’t know, to this day, whether this story is true, but he told me, and now I’m telling you. Maybe someday, you’ll tell someone, and they’ll tell someone. Stories have a way of keeping themselves alive, don’t they?

“You know where I grew up?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Well, that’s where this story happened,” my grandpa said.

My grandfather grew up not far from a crossroads called North Fork, on a lonely strip of Appalachian land the locals called Hell’s Half Acre. He knew that his future was tied to that land, whether he liked it or not. And he didn’t like it.

Walking home from school every day, he’d wonder if it would be the last time he’d make the trip. And then one day, it was. He left school in seventh grade and started work at the coal mine right outside of town. It was that, he told me, or be sold to another family. So he worked, hours and hours in the dark, damp underground, laying wood for mine shafts. And each day, walking home, covered in coal dust and exhausted from head to toe, he’d stare at that fork in the road, and wonder if he’d ever get to really choose any direction at all.

And then one evening, as the sun dipped below the mountains and the holler grew dark and alive with lightning bugs and cricket song, Grandpa met a stranger at the fork.

“Evening,” the man said.

Grandpa nodded and kept walking. In all the years he’d walked this road, he’d never met a stranger on it, and this stranger was certainly strange. Dressed to the nines in July weather, a nice suit, starched and pressed, and dark hair as slick and shiny as a crow’s feathers.

“The name’s Scratch,” the man said.

“Evening, sir,” my grandfather said, and kept walking.

“I’m looking for a young man named Jim,” the man told him.

My grandfather stopped. He was Jim. Jim was his name, and he most definitely didn’t know what this man might want with him. So he answered, “No Jim’s around here, Mr. Scratch.”

“Oh, well, ain’t that a shame,” the stranger said. “Had some good news for Mr. Jim. Sure would have made his day.”

Here was a choice, my grandfather thought, standing stock still, staring at this outsider in church clothes. Confess or keep quiet and start walking. Learn more, or go home and get some sleep.

“Had a deal to make with Jim, I did,” said the man. “Could change his life.”

“All right then, I’m Jim,” my grandfather said.

“I thought you might be,” said the stranger. “Figured there couldn’t be that many teenage boys called Jim in a place like this.”

My grandfather nodded.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jim” said the stranger, and stuck out his hand.

My grandfather shook it, and felt ashamed for the fine coating of black dust his own sweaty hand left behind.

“Like I said, my name’s Scratch, and I’ve got a deal for you, if you’re interested.”

“Don’t know much about deals,” Grandpa answered.

“Well,” the man said, “this one’s easy.”

Grandpa nodded again. Easy sounded good.

“I heard that you were looking to get out of here, maybe do some traveling, and I might be able to help. I’d just need you to do me a favor.”

“What favor?” It didn’t occur to Grandpa at the time that he’d never told a single soul about wanting to leave, and how he hoped to travel.

“Well, I’ve been looking for a woman named Ella, and I think you could help me find her.”

Grandpa raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Ella was the preacher’s wife.

“Do you think you could do that? I need to find her, and if you can help me, I can give you some money and a ticket to New York. You’d just need to get yourself up to Roanoke to catch the train.”

“I know Ella,” Grandpa said.

“Oh, good,” said the stranger. “Can you tell her I’m looking for her? Do that, and meet me here tomorrow. I’ll have that ticket all ready for you.”

Grandpa nodded one more time.  

“And one more thing, Jim,” said the man.

“Yeah?”

“If you take the ticket and the money, there’s a chance I might need your help again. But I bet you’d be okay helping me again, right?” The man smiled then, and that smile, my grandfather said, just looked all kinds of wrong.

Grandpa didn’t nod this time. He just stared at the man and his too-white teeth and his not-right smile.

“I thought so,” said the man. “I’ll be waiting for you here tomorrow. Have a good night, Mr. Jim.”

So dismissed, my grandfather walked away, replaying every bit of their conversation in his head.

“Grandpa,” I asked, “did you go back? Was he there?”

“Of course not,” my grandfather answered. “I went home and thought about it and it didn’t take me too long to figure out just who that man was.”

“What do you think he wanted with the preacher’s wife?”

“Nothing good,” my grandfather said. “There’s only one person in the world who uses the name Scratch, and he’s not a person at all.”

“Wasn’t he there waiting for you?”

“No, he wasn’t,” said Grandpa. “I’d made up my mind that night that I wasn’t gonna help him, and I reckon he knew. The devil has ways of getting into your head.”

“Did you ever see him again?”

“No, and good thing. But you keep your ears open and you’ll hear stories about Old Scratch. He’s always out there, trying to make deals and collect souls.”

“I don’t believe in that stuff,” I said.

“He doesn’t much care whether you believe or not,” Grandpa answered, with a tone of finality. And then he went quiet, and we went back to swinging in silence, looking out on the hill country.

“Is he the reason you don’t go to church?”

“Nah,” Grandpa said. “But every time I see a man in a suit, he’s who I think about.”

I wonder, sometimes, if my grandfather really thought he met the devil, or if it was just a story for a lazy Saturday afternoon. He’s been gone a long time, so I’ll never know. But I do sometimes hear stories about a man named Scratch, and I figure, if he’s real at all, he’s still out there. Grandpa was a good man, and he’s gone. But they say evil lives forever, don’t they?

************

Thank you for reading! This is the seventh of twelve stories I’ll write as part of my 2022 Short Story Challenge. Twelve months, twelve stories, and the theme this year is: Folklore

Here are the first six, if you’d like to read them:

The Winter Woman

The Lady in the Stars

Silly Superstitions

In Search

Sally’s Mill

Tabula Rasa

I hope you join me in the challenge! I think it’s going to be a very good year for stories. But just reading is good, too, and I’m glad you’re here.

The next story will be posted at the end of August.

July’s Short Story

/ Katie / 7 Comments

It’ll be up by Sunday at the latest! Honestly, I haven’t started on it yet, but I will, and I’m sure it will be good.

In the meantime, I wish everyone a lovely weekend! And for now, enjoy this picture of Annie (the Snow Dog), who doesn’t like this heatwave any more than the rest of us.