In my journey, I faced not just one but two stillborns. I was expecting twins—two identical boys, to be precise. While I did have them, the experience was far from what I had envisioned.
After we learned of our loss, my husband initially stated that the most devastating moment for a mother is when she discovers she has lost her unborn child. Yet, as time passed, he realized that the worst moment was not the news itself. The true agony came during the painful delivery, void of any joy at the end. It was the heart-wrenching experience of returning home with empty arms and funeral plans to arrange. It was hearing the imaginary cries of a baby in the quiet of night and facing friends and family who knew I was pregnant but were unaware of my loss. It was dealing with the emotions that everyone wanted to discuss, while all I wanted was silence.
The aftermath was the hardest part. What do you do once you leave the hospital? All you can do is try to live.
My story is one-of-a-kind. While there may be similarities in the circumstances surrounding my babies’ deaths, the journey of grief is uniquely personal. There is no right or wrong way to grieve; it simply is.
Returning home from the hospital, I desperately searched for something—anything—that would provide comfort. I received books, offers for drinks, and shoulders to cry on, but nothing seemed to ease the pain. When people asked what I needed, I often wanted to scream, “My babies! If you can’t give me them, get out of my face!” Yet, I kept that inside, recognizing they were only trying to help. So, I put on a polite smile and said I was fine.
What I truly wished people understood was that my mind was consumed with trying to process what had just happened to my life. I didn’t want to dwell on what I had lost; I wanted to focus on what I still had—my 9-month-old son, my husband, my family, and the new life I needed to navigate.
I know my experience is unique, but I hope that by sharing, I can help others feel less alone in their struggles. One in four women experience a miscarriage, stillbirth, or neonatal death. It’s a reality that’s too common yet rarely discussed. Even if you haven’t experienced this pain yourself, you likely know someone who has. Understanding these stories can foster compassion for those navigating similar grief.
My journey began unexpectedly when I discovered I was pregnant for the second time while my firstborn was just three months old. The real shocker came at my 12-week checkup—I was having twins! My doctor had missed that detail during our first appointment, and though she was embarrassed, the news was bittersweet.
Happiness was hard to grasp as reality set in. The twins shared a placenta and were at risk for a serious condition known as twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome. This rare complication only occurs in about 20 percent of identical twins, and while it’s treatable under specialized care, it posed serious risks. I was advised repeatedly to reach 26 weeks, as the odds of complications would significantly decrease after that point. When I finally reached that milestone, I felt a glimmer of hope—but it was short-lived.
Without delving into the specifics of my pregnancy, it was a challenging seven months that abruptly ended when I was just 26 and a half weeks along. I delivered my precious stillborn boys on September 17. The term “stillborn” feels oddly gentle for such a crushing reality. I was released from the hospital the next day, and that’s when the true heartache began.
Initially, my doctor suggested antidepressants before I left, but I declined, wanting to be present for my 9-month-old son. A couple of weeks later, I realized I was struggling more than I thought. I felt like I was descending into a dark abyss, just trying to muster the energy to care for my child. My son, unaware of the loss, sensed my sorrow, and I desperately tried to hide my tears from him. I didn’t want him to see his mother sad.
Days passed, with me hardly eating or sleeping. The nights were especially brutal; I was exhausted but couldn’t find peace. I was haunted by my grief over what I had lost and consumed by anxiety about the future. I often wondered what life would be like if I had brought my twins home. My body was restless, unable to reconcile the reality of my loss.
Eventually, I reached out to my doctor and started on antidepressants. It’s been a tough road, but I’ve made progress. The deep pit of despair has transformed into a shadowy pothole. I don’t cry as often as I used to, though when the pain resurfaces, it hits hard. My son’s presence is my lifeline, his joy reminding me to keep moving forward.
On one occasion, I had to leave work after a coworker asked when I was having “that baby,” gesturing at my postpartum belly. I held back my frustration until I was alone, where I allowed myself to cry. It’s moments like those that remind us of the weight of our loss.
So what’s next? What’s the remedy for heartache? Time. It can feel interminable during deep sorrow. Hearing “time heals all” can be infuriating, especially when you’re in the thick of pain. Instead of offering platitudes, simply being there for someone—providing a hug, checking in, or bringing a meal—can mean the world.
As hard as it is, you must strive to live your life. It won’t resemble what it was before, but that’s okay. I hold on to the hope that one day, I will feel lighter and happier again. Each season, even the coldest winter, eventually gives way to spring.
You cannot give up; you must persist. It’s the only way to honor the memory of those we’ve lost. I have faith that brighter days are ahead, for me and for anyone else navigating this journey.
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Summary:
In this heartfelt reflection, I share my journey through the devastating loss of my stillborn twins. The pain of delivery and the aftermath of returning home without my babies brought a unique kind of sorrow. Grieving is personal, and while I sought comfort in various forms, the process has taught me that understanding, patience, and simply living through the heartache are essential. The hope for brighter days remains, and I encourage others to persist, knowing they are not alone in their struggles.