by Taya Kyle
Many authors, of course, experience rejection. But the excuse in this case was unique.
It wasn’t as if there was no market for a book that would help others through the same experience of loss, grief, and recovery. In purely commercial terms, there was a large market and little competition.
But there was a simple answer—though generally unspoken—to the business logic:
Dead-baby books don’t sell.
One author told her it was a great exercise in dealing with depression but not something others would read. Another was far blunter. “Stillbirth is something that didn’t happen. Go write about something that happened.’”
The book was neither about “dead babies” nor an attempt to exorcise depression. Publishers and others in the business were misinterpreting both the market and the need of grieving families, along with Lorraine’s motivations. What she wanted to write about was healing—and the simple fact that these unfortunate, heart-rending tragedies are still part of our lives, even if they go unmentioned.
And, maybe most important, some of these tragedies can be prevented with different medical practices.
“You just have to hold your center” and get on with it, says Lorraine about her focus and relentless pursuit of publication in the face of rejection and negativity. She eventually did find a publisher, who released the book in 2004. She’d been right about the book’s market; many women, and a good number of men, who had been through the same experiences wanted to read it.
What she hadn’t predicted, though, was the outpouring of emotion. She and her husband were inundated with messages of sympathy. People sought her out to share their own stories.
Lorraine was invited to speak formally and informally all across the country, sharing Victoria’s story and at the same time raising awareness of the realities of stillbirth. She attended medical conferences and spoke to nurses and other professionals about what her experience had been like. She discovered to her surprise that nurses were generally not trained to deal with patients who experienced a stillbirth; in fact, there was precious little information about it at all in most medical textbooks.
Lorraine’s talks had a profound effect on raising awareness in the medical profession about how to help families. There were also many spiritual moments, not just for her and Bill but also for other women and families who had lost a baby. At a session in Las Vegas, some five hundred people stood on a mountainside as a multitude of candles floated in a pool, blazing in the night, each one a silent tribute to a deceased infant. Bill brought his trumpet to his lips and played “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” his own eloquent tribute to the dead.
The outpouring of thanks from readers and people she met was heartfelt and overwhelming. “Your book was given to me by a dear friend when our dear son Dylan was stillborn,” wrote one correspondent. “I have read so many of the chapters over and over again, and I wanted to thank you for helping me carry on so many times when I felt like giving up.”
“I just finished reading your profoundly touching book,” said another in an email. “As I read the last page, before closing it, I kissed it. . . . One and a half years ago . . . I gave birth to a most beautiful baby boy weighing 9 pounds 2 ounces, not alive, delivered by cesarean section due to a sudden unexplained placental abruption. I lost more than half my blood volume. Thank God my life was spared. I hold this perfect baby of mine every second of my day. I have several girls, thank God. We waited fifteen years for my beautiful boy. Although my heart has grown to hold this pain, I see my little boy before me every moment of my life. . . . Reading your book has been nothing less than therapy for me.”
The book tour extended to four years. “Exhausting,” she admits, “but also so rewarding.”
Lorraine’s courage in sharing her story inspired others. Along the way, medical professionals listened, adding and modifying training and procedures to help grieving parents. Regulations governing pre-birth practices like screenings began to change.
Slowly, though. Very, very slowly.
One of the surprising deficiencies Lorraine and others discovered was the lack of hard data on stillborn deaths. Her own state, New Jersey, didn’t collect any. Such tracking is routine for other causes of death. This meant that there was no way for prospective parents to reliably know if conditions at a particular hospital might be problematic—and also no way for regulatory agencies or even other doctors to realize there was a possible problem so they could correct it.
Also amazing—at least to those of us who have had no experience with it—medical protocols do not call for additional testing after the first test for strep at thirty-seven weeks, even though it’s been known since at least the 1930s that the bacteria is not only a potent danger but also extremely prevalent.
Lorraine testified before a number of groups, including the Centers for Disease Control (CDC), the nation’s top health agency, suggesting that the protocols be changed. In New Jersey, her home state, she joined a fight to introduce and pass a law not only mandating autopsies and tracking of stillborn deaths but also directing state health officials to set standards for sensitive care when a child is stillborn.
Following a long, drawn-out process—not so much a fight but a slow crawl toward dealing with the deficiency—the bill was passed and signed into law in January 2014 as the Autumn Joy Stillbirth Research and Dignity Act. Named after a stillborn baby, the law could serve as a model for others across the nation. But advocates, including Lorraine, have noted that many of the provisions have not yet been implemented. She and the others are continuing to put pressure on the legislature and the hospitals to comply.
The spiritual journey that Lorraine took after the death of her child “drives everything I do,” she says today. The journey is not easy to summarize—the best account of it is in her book—but it certainly went beyond any single denomination; the result was a deep spirituality that is inclusive rather than exclusive.
“It’s the way I view life,” she says. It caused many changes in her perspective: the difference she sees between Nature and God, the spiritual well inside all of us. The need to “get outside” the drama of trauma.
“Now I understand,” she says.
In the best possibility, the searing intensity of grief gives way to a stasis, a state not necessarily of relief or even the absence of pain but of tentative peace. For many of us, real peace comes from purpose. Regaining purpose—helping others get through what you went through, changing things for the better so that what you experienced will not be duplicated, simply doing things for other people without the need for praise or compensation—for many, purpose becomes the path to personal renewal.
And it touches the deepest strains of the American Spirit—perseverance, resilience, charity.
Lorraine has reached a point where there is a valuable sense of peace. She and her husband can talk about their daughter with a bit of whimsy—gently making fun of themselves for making her “perfect” in their fantasies of what she would be doing now had she lived. That doesn’t mean that the ache has disappeared completely and certainly not that they disrespect her or themselves. But it does show that they have found the strength to persevere.
While Bill has continued his musical career, Lorraine has shifted her focus away from journalism. Along with her husband, she now works with other writers, both amateur and professional, helping them write memoirs or prepare works for publication. The pair have started a small publishing house of their own, concentrating on memoirs and inspirational stories. Lorraine also holds writing seminars; many of the attendees have gone through various traumas, and she works with them to get beyond.
“Many people are inside the trauma. They have to get outside it,” she explains, adding that knowing the larger context of one’s life can often help. Writing can mean healing for many: “When you push the story through the narrative form and infuse it with new insight, it changes the story and it changes the storyteller. And we call that change healing.”
Lorrai
ne’s own story continues to touch people deeply. Much of the correspondence she gets now is from people who say the book helped save the life of their baby—an incredible tribute to Lorraine, Bill, and their daughter.
And to this day, Victoria gets birthday cards and gifts from strangers. It’s a wonderful tribute, and one sign that the American Spirit shared with others can take on a life of its own. It can even bring life where life has been lost. That is true power.
Among other organizations devoted to improving procedures for dealing with Group B strep and preventing stillbirths is the Jesse Cause, named after a little boy who nearly lost his life when born. Information about the group and the cause are available on the web at www.thejessecause.org.
Don’t Be Inspired; Be Exceptional
Barbara Allen
He was the answer to her prayers, the man the college coed met not two weeks after feeling so desolate she prayed to God she’d meet someone nice—an echo of what I did before I met my future husband, Chris. The moment Lou Allen took Barbara’s hand as they were introduced in a bar, she knew he was the one, even though she’d come to the bar at her sister’s insistence to be fixed up with someone else.
Within months, they were talking about what their wedding song would be. They were married in the snow and ice in March 1996, picked up by a horse and carriage hired to take them to church.
“The poor horse was so skinny he couldn't lug us all up the hill,” Barbara remembers, “so everyone but me had to get out and walk. We laughed our asses off as a tape played a constant loop of “Going to the Chapel” and a line of cars piled up behind us.”
Tight finances, a miscarriage, 9/11—they got through the worst with mutual love and support, enduring and even flourishing. Lou found a dream job in a local school district and became a popular science teacher, bringing stability to their financial situation. On Barbara’s thirty-second birthday, they celebrated not only the passing of another year but what they justifiably thought was a rich and wonderful life. Four kids, a great marriage, a nice house in New York’s beautiful Hudson Valley. What could be better?
There was one slight complication—besides being a well-loved teacher, Lou was also an officer in the National Guard. And that night, of all nights, he told Barbara he would be deploying to Iraq as a member of New York’s historic 42nd Infantry Division, known as the Rainbow Division.
Most servicepeople, especially lieutenants like Lou, don’t have an option—the Army says go, you go. But in this case, he had a little bit of leeway, which must have made the decision harder for Barbara to accept. A friend at the 42nd needed a man with exactly his expertise and had asked if he wanted to transfer and come to Iraq to help straighten out what looked to be a mess in the unit’s supply system.
Lou agreed. There were many reasons—his own unit was likely to deploy soon anyway, and this looked like it would take him away from his family for less time—but the most important reason was his love of our country and his devotion to duty. I’m sure it didn’t outweigh his love for his family, but I know from my own experience that husbands and fathers who sign up for the military believe they can balance both and that service to America doesn’t contradict their love and responsibilities to their family.
It’s one thing to believe that and another to live with it easily. A lot of the burden fell to Barbara. Their oldest child was barely of school age; their youngest still in diapers. And separation aside, Iraq in 2005 was a very dangerous place.
But Lou was enthusiastic, and there was never a question of her talking him out of it. He had joined the National Guard in 1998, and ever since the 9/11 attacks, Barbara knew in her heart that someday he would have to deploy as part of the war on terrorism.
That day came several months later, as the wheels of Army bureaucracy turned very slowly. On May 1, Barbara and Lou took the kids to their favorite pancake restaurant, then with tears and hugs bid good-bye. Lou set off to the new unit’s post; roughly two weeks later, he flew to Iraq.
On June 8, Barbara woke up at 6:00 a.m. to a loud knock at the front door. There she saw a sight every wife of every deployed soldier dreads—three men in Class A military uniforms who could be at her home at this hour for only one terrible purpose: to tell her that her husband had been killed.
There were extra complications in Lou’s case that made Barbara’s ordeal even more difficult. He and his commanding officer were killed in what authorities suspected was a “fragging incident”—an assassination by a fellow soldier.
Army investigators soon charged a soldier with the murder. Nearly two and a half years later, following a long ordeal for Barbara, the man would be deemed not guilty by a court-martial. No one else has been charged in the murder; the case remains open.
By the time I met her, Barbara was far from the shell-shocked young mother who opened the door to so much grief that day in 2005.
That first time I met her still stands out. She and a group of other Gold Star women were attending an event connected with the Miss America pageant where I was to be a judge. She had heard of my own story and wanted to meet me, but she was so shy that she texted Jim—she’d met him and his wife about a year before—and asked if he thought . . . I don’t know, that maybe I would bite her head off if she said hi.
He assured her I wouldn’t, texted me, and a few minutes later we were introduced. Barbara went on to introduce me to some of the Gold Star mothers with her. I was impressed by their strength. Like me, they had all lost their spouses; our grief and recoveries were our bond.
We talked together for well over an hour, before I had to leave for other appointments.
Possibly I was a little late for those. But as many people who know me well will tell you, I believe some things are more important than the clock.
What struck me at that first meeting was how poised and energetic Barbara was. Here was a woman who had gone through a deep tragedy, a mom carrying a full load on her shoulders raising four boys while helping others, and yet she was full of life and strength. I sensed immediately that she was the kind of person who attracts a network of helpers around them.
You never really get over a loss like Barbara’s; at best, you find a way to keep living. Barbara has done that and more. She’s launched a project to encourage others to overcome their own tragedies and reach out and help others.
Not that it was easy. After the trial exonerated the man she’d come to believe had killed her husband, she fell into a deep hole. Things were made worse when, seeking some support, she rushed into a bad relationship.
“When I got myself together,” says Barbara today, “I was finally able to look behind me and analyze what had gone on. I realized that once I turned my mind-set around and got rid of the beliefs that were holding me down, I could move on.”
The beliefs were a range of bad feelings that many people go through after losing a spouse: worthlessness, victimhood, a feeling that they are no good or unworthy.
A feeling that the universe or God Himself is against us.
A belief that nothing we do will make any difference.
A conviction that life is hopeless, and other people are all part of the problem.
And then there’s the “No” voice inside, saying nothing they do will work, that things will never get better, that it doesn’t even make sense to try. No, no, no.
But back to Barbara.
Barbara struggled to carry on with her life after Lou’s death. For months, she was in a bad place—depressed, desperate. As solace, she fell into a relationship that seemed not only stable but potentially healing—only to discover that the man she thought was strong was using her and had his own demons.
Instead of leaving, she sank deeper into the hole. She told a few close friends but took no action. She felt emotionally abused and believed she was being manipulated in a seemingly endless cycle. Finally, a friend told her that she would continue to listen only if Barbara was willing to do something about the situation.
“I had to realize that
I was valuable enough to save,” Barbara says now. She also had to realize that her kids didn’t deserve to suffer because she was unwilling to take her life into her own hands.
In essence, she had to fight. For herself and her kids. She was more than valuable enough for that.
After everything I’ve been through, losing my husband, the trial, everything, you’re going to take me down?
No way.
No way!
Barbara finally broke off the relationship and started rebuilding her life. She got a job working with veterans. The more she did for herself and her family, the better she felt. The more she helped others, the more she attracted the kind of people who didn’t need help.
Gradually, she climbed out of the hole. The dark fog that had enveloped her spirit lifted. She found a new boyfriend. She found new joy and times of laughter with her kids. She kept moving forward with her life. Along the way, she began reading stories about women and men who had gone through difficult times and persevered.
Inspired, she read more.
Then she started meeting some of the people in those stories. Her spirit soared.
Like me, and I’m sure like many of you, Barbara found the news she saw on television, in newspapers, and on the internet very negative by contrast. Everything seemed political, and everything political was a flash point; more, it was anger-inducing. Bile begat bile; tempers escalated to a boiling point.
One day she mentioned this to her boyfriend, who agreed.
What can we do about this? they asked each other.
In the past, Barbara might have said nothing. But having turned the corner from darkness to hope, she found a positive response.
Let’s put the stories out there.
And so, she and her boyfriend, Dan, established a website called American Snippets (www.AmericanSnippets.com), with a sister Facebook page (www.facebook.com/americansnippets).