It's One of Us(114)
I knew her as surely as I knew myself. I have rarely been presented with such a wholly realized character—not since Taylor Jackson pulled an Athena and sprang fully formed from my head. I saw Olivia and knew her stories as if we’d been friends for years. She was walking down a beach, alone, arms wrapped around herself. She had just suffered a heart-wrenching miscarriage. She was so very, very sad. The line appeared in my consciousness: There was blood again.
It was finally time to tell her story.
I’ve said to my husband many times over the years that I often feel handicapped as a writer because I don’t speak the same language as so many of my peers. What Liane Moriarty did in Big Little Lies, for example, the language of the school pickup line—I didn’t have that in my repertoire. I wrote characters who had children sometimes, naturally. We don’t always have to experience things firsthand to write convincingly and honestly about them; I believe this in my soul. But there was always a little something I felt I was missing.
When Olivia demanded her story be told, I had a realization. I might not be able to write comfortably about what it’s like raising children, but I sure as hell could write about what it’s like to lose them.
This is the story of a woman who cannot bear a child, despite her many attempts. It is about a marriage broken by too many things to count. It is about the family we think we need, and the ways we survive the hardest parts of living. It is a tale of obsession and a tale of betrayal.
It is also a celebration. I hope to unmask and destigmatize—no, normalize—the conversation about infertility. I promise you, whether you know it or not, a woman very close to you has suffered a miscarriage. It is something so ubiquitous as to be almost commonplace, and yet it is rarely spoken about, and treated with such abhorrence and fear that it remains in the shadows, a dirty little secret too many of us are trying to hide. It’s horrible. It’s tragic. It’s happened to virtually every woman of childbearing age—some of them without even knowing it.
Yes, I am a statistic. I am also incredibly blessed to have a loving husband, a wonderful family, and internal fortitude. I chose not to be broken by the tragedy that befell us. It was a difficult choice, but it was the only one for me. As they say, the only way out is through.
Recently, a woman who is more in tune with the things we cannot see around us did a reading for me. I was suffering from a creative block, not surprisingly whilst writing this book. Fear, most likely, of putting too much of myself out in the world.
Knowing absolutely nothing of my background, my private life, my interior life, my struggles with infertility, she said that when she envisioned me, I was surrounded by small sparks of light. They danced around me. She thought they were beautiful, these invisible fireflies of hope.
Eventually, that woman became a friend, and I felt close enough to her to share my journey. She clapped her hands and said, “Oh! That’s what those lights are. The souls of your babies. They surround you with joy and happiness. They’re with you, always.”
And so they are. In this world, and the next.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I normally start an acknowledgment with a list of people who’ve bolstered my path in writing a book, ending with my husband of many years. But this time I’m starting with Randy. This is his story as much as mine, and if he hadn’t encouraged me to find a place for the anecdotes that plagued our fertility journey, both the horror and the hilarity, I might never have found my way through, much less have discovered Olivia. He has been my rock for three decades, but never more so than during the trials and tribulations of both trying to have children and the writing of this book. There were days when it was just too much, and he was always there, arms open, silent, strong, and steady. I would be nothing without you, my darling. Thank you for showing me the joy on the other side. And for not being a vampire.
On to the rest. My deepest thanks to the following:
My darling agent Laura Blake Peterson, who pushed me out of my comfort zone and believed I could fly, who gave love, support, encouragement, and ass kicking as needed. Her gasp of excitement when I pitched this idea will live on in my mind forever.
Jeremy Finley, who happily sacrificed his precious time to talk me through the reporter parts. Any mistakes are my own.
Will Osley, for great care with our move(s) and insisting on being a heroic cowboy detective. I hope Osley is exactly what you wanted, and thank you for letting me take liberties with his character for the story.
Mel Osley, for the enthusiastic book discourse and screenwriting chats.
Andrea Baynham, for showing me the stars, then showing me my power.
Connie Gerhman, for the tour of Chapel Hill that made a lasting impression.
Courtney Breslin, formerly my producer at WNPT, for sharing how a documentary should be structured. Again, all mistakes are my own.
Laura Benedict, whose shoulder was cried upon more than once, and who listened, scolded, encouraged, plotted, and supported, endlessly, for all the things, then and now.
Ariel Lawhon, structural dynamo, cheerleader, Wordle partner, permanent queso date, and plotting genius, for, hell, all of it.
Patti Callahan Henry, who was the first one to LOVE this title and is a strategic creative queen.
Paige Crutcher, who lived through so much of this with me, held me when I wept, and gave me the gift of yoga to heal my troubled soul.
The Porch: Paige Crutcher, Helen Ellis, Lisa Patton, Anne Bogel, Mary Beth Whalen, Ariel Lawhon, Laura Benedict, and Patti Callahan Henry, for holding me up when I didn’t think I could pull this off, for quarterly write-ins and in-person dates, for the laughs, the tears, and the creative synergies of an incredible group of brilliant women with whom I am honored to share the rarefied air.