“Loss is part of life.”
I have to admit, those words never sat well with me. Not because I don’t believe them—but because they felt like they rushed me through something I wasn’t ready to face. They seemed to suggest that grief has a timetable. That if I just remembered what I still had, I’d be fine.
But nothing could have prepared me for the loss of a second child. And the pain that would follow.
The shock of expecting twins
I was familiar with loss before this. But this felt so different. And I never expected the pregnancy of my second-born to become part of my grief story.
At first, it was the shock of falling pregnant again—unexpected, yes, but something I could come to terms with. Then came the next surprise: twins.
I had barely wrapped my head around that news when I heard the words no expecting mother ever wants to hear:
“It doesn’t look like the one baby will make it.”
I went numb. I heard the doctor speaking, but it felt like I was floating outside my body. Half listening. Half in disbelief.
So many questions, no real answers
What is a hydrops baby?
You’re saying he might make it to term… then what?
How do I know the other twin will be okay?
What does “high risk” in this case actually mean?
Will I have to go through another c-section—after the trauma of my last one?
I had a hundred questions and no energy to ask any of them. I just listened. Quietly panicked.
Here’s what I was told:
- I was pregnant with twins.
- One was growing normally.
- The other had a condition called hydrops fetalis—fluid had built up around his organs. His heart was working too hard.
- He might keep growing, but the outlook wasn’t good.
- His chances of survival were close to none.
Each appointment filled me with dread. I’d hold my breath, wondering if today would be the day they told me his heart had stopped.
The grief you can’t talk about
At 16 weeks, I lost my baby.
I felt a strange mix of sadness and relief. Relief that his little body wouldn’t have to fight anymore. But sadness that I never got to meet him. Never got to know who he would be.
People tried to comfort me with reminders that I still had one healthy baby growing inside me. That I had a toddler at home who needed me. That I had reasons to stay strong, and to be grateful.
They meant well—but those words didn’t help.
Because even though I still had children to love, I had lost one. And it felt like there wasn’t room to talk about that grief. Like I wasn’t allowed to mourn in my own way, in my own time.
So, I buried it. Tucked it away in the quiet corners of my story.
It’s taken time—and courage—to write this down. I used to think that talking about it would make people uncomfortable. That it might sound ungrateful, because I still had a baby to hold.
But now I know this:
- Grief and gratitude can exist side by side.
- You can be thankful for what you have and still mourn what you lost.
- You can carry joy in one hand and heartbreak in the other.
I lost my baby at 16 weeks. And that loss matters—even if I never got to bring him home.
To anyone who has experienced pregnancy loss, or the complicated emotions of a high-risk pregnancy: you are allowed to grieve. You are allowed to feel everything, even if others don’t fully understand.
Reviewed April 2025. Always consult a professional for individual guidance.
