I didn't chose miscarriage I did everything right And still, my baby died
My name is Maria Ann Green. I've had a miscarriage. And it nearly broke me. To heal I spoke up. I reached out to the community of loss mamas, and I did work to normalize our conversations about miscarriages, pregnancy losses, stillbirths, and infant losses. I've always been someone who stays inside my comfort zone, but now I’m pushing myself to do things that are hard for me. I’m asking for help. I need more people in my life who lift me up, and who I can lift up in return. I need help creating a stronger support network. Help with taking care of stressors that weigh me down constantly. And yes, help with getting through this ridiculously hard time to try and have a rainbow baby. To afford it.
My story of infertility and miscarriage isn't pretty, but it's also not abnormal. And it's become a part of who I am, like every other experience I have.
To give you the full story I have to go way back. I’ve struggled with PCOS my entire adult life. Although, I only recently (at almost 35 years old) had a single provider acknowledge it and start working with me on it. This means I’ve dealt with infertility from the very moment I tried getting pregnant. It’s been one struggle after another. It took four years for my husband and I to conceive our daughter. When I was 4 weeks pregnant I started bleeding heavily and went into the ER prepared for the worst news. Instead, we left with more questions than we’d even entered with. I was still bleeding and my paperwork said my diagnosis was “possible abortion.” I won't get up on my soapbox about the insensitive, and quite frankly OPPOSITE of trauma-informed language of medicine, but let’s just say it was terrifying and I felt even worse. Not only did it feel implied that I was making this choice to lose my brand new baby that I’d waited four long years to conceive, but it was possible. After three long weeks of assuming the worst, of reading forums and message boards with the worst-case scenarios women dealt with, I was sure when we walked into every appointment that I’d get the news we lost the baby finally. Three weeks of blood draws had slight rises in hormone levels, but “not enough.” And then suddenly, surprisingly, we saw a heart beating on our fourth, or maybe it was the fifth, ultrasound. I actually asked the ultrasound technician if she was kidding. I was that shocked. We did some research and found out we had experienced vanishing twin syndrome. My cycles are horribly irregular and out of whack, so my estimated date of conception was way off - which also means my hormones had been super high, and when I started losing one twin they leveled off and rose very slowly until they caught up to where they should be for a single baby. But we had a baby. A baby that had a beating heart. We were thrilled. For all of about 11 weeks. I then developed gestational hypertension which put me and the baby into the high-risk category. For the rest of the pregnancy, my appointments were double what a “regular” or healthy pregnancy would have. I was just thankful to have my kiddo. I counted kicks nervously, and around 38 weeks when my water was too low at one of those many, MANY, appointments it was decided there was more risk in waiting to see if it rose than in inducing labor. After three long days waiting to actually feel the contractions I’d actually been having since 20 weeks and had no idea, fingers prodding me painfully, needles in my arms, and very little time allowed to walk around - finally I pushed my little girl out! She took a moment to cry and my heart stopped until I knew she was okay. She was this purple and red little squishy thing, wrinkled and lumpy. I never had that angel’s singing moment when I looked at her. I loved her, of course. I’d have thrown myself in front of a bus to save her. But it took days and weeks to develop the type of almost painfully expansive love you hear about.
It was worth the wait, though, because my little girl is pure magic. She’s sunshine personified in the body of a determined, stubborn, and wild little soul. But that came later. Looking back at our stressful pregnancy, and labor, it was amazing that the delivery was so easy. In fact, it was too easy. Because I then faced the issue of a retained placenta and no access to the proper medical professional (I mean, I thought that’s what hospitals were for, but apparently not?!) to fix the situation. Before my OB showed up at the hospital my stats started crashing and I began to blackout. The amazing nurses and my midwife acted quickly and stabilized me, just as the man of the hour arrived to yank part of my body - what had connected my baby and me for nearly ten months - out of me. It was the most excruciating thing I’ve ever felt. But afterward, she was still healthy and in my arms. I was happy. We might have faced months of colic, dairy sensitivities, tongue ties, no milk production, constant ear infections, and whatever else I’ve mentally blocked out, but we faced it together as a family. My husband has always been my partner in every step, and it took quite a while, but finally, we decided we were ready to try for baby number two.
Sure we had lots of complications with our daughter. Before, during, and after. But we thought if we just tried long enough it would happen again. I still was being told I was overreacting for suspecting PCOS and told countless times to “just stop trying.” I don’t think my eyes ever roll harder than when I hear that saying. We tracked and we tried. We tried. And we tried. I took every supplement I saw recommended anywhere, every silly superstition - to the day when I’m ovulating I still wear two layers of socks or fuzzy slippers to make sure my feet stay warm because somehow that’s supposed to help with implantation?
Then after two years of living two weeks at a time, somehow I saw those two lines again. Our daughter was almost six already, and I was nearing 34. But finally, I was pregnant. The same constant morning sickness came and I complained. The same spikes in blood pressure continued. I’d also developed chronic pain from my severe TMJ between my two pregnancies and dealing with that pain when medications were off the table might have made the rest of my family as miserable as me. But my daughter was getting a sibling, which she’d desperately been begging for, for years. I did all the fun things I’d forgotten or missed out on before. I surprised my husband and daughter with the announcement. I made sure at every appointment I announced I didn’t want to know the sex, that I wanted it to be a surprise. I took every vitamin, followed every recommendation, and did my best not to burst into tears at random commercials.
However, at 17 weeks I had a late miscarriage. I will never, EVER, forget sitting in that ultrasound room and starting to feel the dread seep into my skin. I knew something was wrong moments before it was announced. The technician’s voice was respectful, hushed, and so kind when she told me that my baby no longer had a heartbeat. That my baby had died. That I was literally living through death. I had to carry it inside of me, and somehow still find the will to function. There were many missteps by the medical professionals I had caring for me, but I will never forget the consultation before my surgery and the amazing OB who would take my baby from me. I’d found out the day before that he was a boy, that I’d lost my son before I knew he was my son. The OB was so kind. She told me I’d done everything right. Not that I didn’t do anything wrong. But she used the positive, assuring me that every single thing I did was right. And there was no right choice here. Despite having the option to induce labor, I chose to be unconscious and have the D&E surgery. I knew both options were horrible. I’d had such a hard delivery with my daughter, and that was only 2 weeks early. Hold long and how hard would it be to induce this poor baby. I wanted to hold and see him. But at the same time, I wasn’t sure I could do it, that I would ever come back from the depths of darkness it would be for me. To this day I wish I’d been braver. But even if I had gotten to hold Jax, to see his face and touch the little feet that are not tattooed on my arm, it wouldn’t have undone what I wished I could wish away. He would still be dead. I told the OB I simultaneously wanted to get him out and start healing immediately, as soon as possible. But somehow I wished I could keep him inside me forever. Keep him safe even if I hadn’t been able to keep him healthy. That night is such a blur, looking back now. I called funeral homes, set up cremation, made sure my daughter was doing okay with my parents, and then I was sent to sleep knowing that once I woke up I’d no longer be pregnant.
I cannot think about that night without crying, nearly a year later. It scared me. Not in a malicious way. But in an inevitable one. I tell everyone who asks that, no I will never be the same. The old me died the moment I found out Jax had. I will never be able to look at life the same. I cannot see pregnancies the same. It was truly the worst thing to ever happen to me, worse than when I was sexually assaulted, worse than losing other loved ones. This event changed me, on a cellular level. Part of my still lingering innocence died along with the old me. A new Maria was born, and in some ways, I’m stronger, better. But in other ways, I’m harder. Different in a lot of ways. I’ve written a book about my miscarriage, constructed poetry, letters to my son, and illustrated images throughout. I hate that this happened to me. And my grief will never EVER go away. But I continue to grow around it, finding my capacity for love to keep growing despite all I’ve struggled through. It was hard when we got the test results back after surgery only to find out that there was no clear reason. I couldn’t blame anything, anyone. I knew less yet again.
My PCOS which is finally diagnosed is the reason we STILL struggle with infertility. But it’s not why we lost Jax. So another struggle began after he died. We’ve been trying for our rainbow baby constantly. And over 10 months into this process we only have frustration and heartache to show for our efforts. Infertility is a dark monster sitting on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your throat, at all times. It weighs you down. It separates you from loved ones who used to understand you, and now don’t know how to have a conversation with you. It’s like torture. And all because we know our family isn’t complete.
Unfortunately, it’s not only the emotional pain that’s a serious issue. We’ve spent thousands on top of thousands of dollars on doctor appointments, on overdue medical bills, surgery, and medication bills, tracking devices, supplements, testing, fertility treatments, and more. That doesn’t even factor in the hours of researching, worrying, doubting, and crying. Plus the retail therapy. Buying more books to read, to try to feel understood, helped, connected, or just feel we have a chance. To top it off, during this last year of trying for our rainbow baby We’ve had to let go of a provider who didn’t have the patience or compassion for me or our situation. She was truly hindering my health by gaslighting me, ignoring my concerns, and brushing past any question I dared to ask. And now there are more difficult roadblocks to seeing a new provider that may help us conceive our rainbow. Money is one problem. Support is another. Flexibility could help too.
So, despite having the hardest time asking for help, that’s what I’m doing now. I’m asking for help from anyone who’s able and willing to give my daughter and our Angel baby a new rainbow sibling. I’m raising funds to be able to afford upcoming fertility treatments, the ability to see a provider who respects me, and to pay for everything along this hard and painful journey. I KNOW I’m meant to have a rainbow, but for once I have to admit that I need help to get through the storm and to the side where that rainbow is.
After losing Jax I’ve done a lot of work to expand the conversation, help the normalization, and reduce the stigma of pregnancy and infant loss. I’ve been loud in my efforts and provided a safe space for others to share and connect online. I’ve tried my best to help others through their grief, and I’ve been a support to any and all loss survivors as often as I can. My email, messages, and my time are always open to listen to the tears, to the venting, to take it all in without judging or giving advice that’s unhelpful. And I truly hope the amazing communities I’m lucky enough to be a part of can help spread the word and help this mama bring a new soul hearthside where it will receive ALL the love and more.
Infertility sucks, and it’s expensive. Miscarriage is absolutely horrible, and yet somehow has a financial burden attached to it as well. Finding a rainbow is hard as hell, and costs too much. I've worked hard to have enough and cover everything so far. I hosted a silent auction, and I've asked for donations. And I am grateful for EVERY single bit of help I've gotten, and that is still coming my way. My attitude is toward gratitude, as often as I can keep it there. Of course, I have bad days, times when I feel the cards I've been dealt are unfair and I compare and envy. But I'm always growing, changing, and trying to be better. I know I wouldn't be where I am now without my loved ones and my support network. Through all of my efforts, though, I've found I still need more help. So I'm being as brave as I know how to be, and I'm asking. Plus, if I'm lucky enough to raise more funds than I need I'll be starting my own grants for those facing the same struggles that I am.