On 02-03-03, I lost twins at 19 weeks. That’s not entirely accurate, though, is it? I had been feeling sick and was surprised when we found out I was pregnant. Usually, I got very sick, very quickly, and it was clear that I was pregnant.
This time, the pregnancy test seemed like an afterthought—ruling it out just in case. A vaginal ultrasound confirmed twins, which was the second surprise. And to top off the surprises, I was much further along than I would have ever guessed.
We decided to bring our 8 kids with us for the next ultrasound so they’d be part of the twins’ pregnancy and to find out more information about the due date, etc. My belly was lubed and we were all excited when the tech removed the doppler and said, “We’re not going to see your babies today.”
We quietly had a conversation to learn that one of the twins had died, and of course, the other was at risk. How do we tell the kids? I honestly don’t know how we told them, although they were young, which made it easier.
I started to bleed soon after the ultrasound and had been bleeding for days. The doctor thought perhaps one twin would survive, and he asked me—if I could—to collect all the blood clots and tissue and put them in a baggie.
But I couldn’t. As odd as it sounds, as I sat sobbing on the toilet, it was more challenging to collect the remains than to flush the toilet. Even through my grief, and tears, I flushed my baby, and the shame I felt over that has never completely gone away.
With time and hindsight, I wish I had collected everything, seen the remains, tried to make sense of what I collected, and been able to look at the child my body wasn’t able to hold onto. Isn’t that what retrospect does—offers clarity and solutions outside of the moment to remind you of the road not taken, and of a better option with all the “should have, would have, could haves.”
Over the next few days, my doctor continued to tell me one twin might survive, and I was shocked. With so much bleeding, so much tissue, how was that even possible? “Are you sure?” I asked him.
Somehow in the conversation, he confirmed with me, “Are you saying you want to abort the baby?” “No,” I said. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. I just can’t imagine a baby surviving this and I’m wondering if I’ll get through it myself.”
I felt like I was dying. I felt like I was failing. My blood was taken again and my levels were dropping. The D&C was scheduled.
In the hospital prior to the D&C, another ultrasound and bloodwork to determine if my levels were continuing to go down felt like an uncomfortable reminder that my body was not able to support these two babies.
Ultimately, the second twin had died, my levels continued to decline, and I was prepped for surgery. Although they died earlier, 02-03-03 is the date of my D&C and the official day the twins were gone.
This was my 7th pregnancy—a miracle after infertility and a higher chance of miscarriage in general. I had given birth to 4 girls—one in the hospital and 3 at home with midwives.
My first two miscarriages were early on in pregnancy, between my first 2 girls, and I processed them well. There was sadness within my known statistics to carrying a pregnancy, although, for the most part, I got through it with relative ease.
This one, though, was far different. Not just because I was further along, or because it was twins. I really felt like my body was done. I felt some amount of relief when the second twin didn’t make it, and the added shame of those feelings compounded my failure. How could I NOT want these babies?
And yet, that’s not it at all. It had nothing to do with not wanting them and everything to do with my body hemorrhaging and my fear I wouldn’t survive for my other kids that I felt more acutely. The feelings of shame, failure, and overwhelm, coupled with what a woman’s body is going through physically, can put us in a headspace that later seems reprehensible.
There are no options given to women during loss. When you miscarry under 20 weeks, there’s no fetal death certificate to show that you lost a child. The hospital doesn’t tell you that you can collect the remains to cremate or bury them. You don’t have a headstone or even an item to commemorate and remember your lost child. You are discharged from the hospital and told to recover physically, and no one is there to help you process emotionally. Depending on cultural and spiritual beliefs, your grief may be unacceptable to show.
A year after this miscarriage, I had a hysterectomy and subsequent surgery 2 hours later for internal bleeding. I was told I was dead on the table and had 5 blood transfusions, 3 of which were my own blood that was suctioned out of my abdomen, run through a machine, and given back to me. The reason it was scheduled a year later is that my insurance wouldn’t pay for it before then.
My doctor put me on birth control pills—2 a day that made me vomit with such force, I broke blood vessels in my eyes. I hemorrhaged for a year after losing those twins, and although the hysterectomy saved my life, it took something from me also. Choice. It also meant that I felt that miscarriage a year after it was over—as if it never ended.
In the end, through long-term foster care, adoptions, and blending families, I’m beyond blessed to have 18 children. Although it’s been a crazy, wild adventure that I’m in love with, I’ve regretted missing the opportunity I could have had to really process losing the twins.
I was a birth assistant with midwives, was a lactation consultant, taught 2 childbirth education classes, and ran LaLeche League meetings. All of that was my passion for 12 years. After the hysterectomy, for several reasons, I walked away from that life. I considered it in my past, something I used to love, that I wouldn’t be able to do again. I regretfully gave away all my books, resources, and even some handmade quilts to others who were able to work with moms where I felt I no longer could.
In 2020, 15 years after I had stopped helping women in this way, my daughter, Olivia —my rainbow baby—after her first baby decided that she too wanted to become a doula and breastfeeding counselor. I’ve been so proud of her, and it’s also been a painful reminder of what I left behind. She’s asked me several times to do it with her, to relicense, and I didn’t see a way.
Thankfully, my husband did. He saw the pain of not doing what I loved, and my longing, and sat me down to tell me we could go to one income and that he’d do everything in his power for me to go back to school. We’re saving money for doula training and I’m applying for scholarships in the hopes that they will help cover the cost.
In the meantime, I was able to pay for the Birth & Bereavement Doula course through stillbirthday.com. As I went through that journey, the loss of my twins resurfaced. I’m grateful because I’ll be able to help other women the way I would have loved to have had someone there in my corner giving me options, holding my hand, and telling me how I felt was OK.
Through the course, I contacted everyone I could to get medical records and information—knowing that after 19 years, I would be lucky to get anything.
The answers I got were cold reminders of a traumatic situation. Seeing in black and white that the insurance company and doctors called this a “postpartum and post-abortion diagnosis with O.R procedure” and “post-abortion hemorrhage” from a “recent spontaneous abortion” didn’t elicit positive memories (to say the least). It infuriated me into being thankful that I am doing something to interrupt the process for other women.
In talking with the head pathology doctor at the hospital where I had the “O.R. procedure” done, he apologetically let me know that fetal tissue below 20 weeks gestation is considered “medical waste.” It’s autoclaved at a temperature that kills all pathogens and sterilized, at which time the tissue is disposed of in the landfill.
This was the final piece of the puzzle that left me sobbing and Facetiming my daughter Olivia. This is what other mothers should never have to go through. I no longer feel guilty about my loss and shame, nor will I minimize the grief as if somehow they weren’t “real” babies. I finally named the twins—with my ex-husband —and since I don’t know the gender, chose names that could go either way.
Riley, valiant. Alex, helper and defender of mankind. You are remembered.
Through processing my loss, I feel empowered and thankful for a community that I’ve loved for three decades now, and for a new opportunity to help other moms.
Waiting on Sunrise 