“Hey, are there twins in there?” The bus driver called out with a wave while waiting for the school nearby to let out. He spotted my large 9-month pregnant belly and cracked a joke. Yet, the words hit me like a punch to the gut.
It was late November 2024, but I was suddenly pulled back to the memory of my pregnancy four years ago when my son’s identical twin brother died in utero, forcing me to carry them both—one alive and one gone—until their due date arrived.
I ignored him and kept walking my dog, pretending her excitement was my reason to hurry away.
He yelled again, “I said, ‘You’ve got twins in there!’ I’m telling you, you must!”
I held back the urge to reply, “I had twins, but one of them didn’t make it!”
Don’t make him uncomfortable. That thought stopped me. Instead, I weakly waved back and said, “No… just a week overdue!” as I waddled past.
I turned the corner, heart racing, trying to push away thoughts of impending labor. I hoped the tears welling in my eyes would hold off until I was safely home.
As time goes by, carrying grief becomes a bit more manageable. The panic attacks are infrequent now, and I can drift off to sleep without crying. Still, there are moments when the loss hits me, feeling fresh, as if it just happened.
When I got home, my husband was in the kitchen. I went straight to him, weeping as if it were the day we lost our dear Killian. He held me, understanding without words—this moment was for our son.
In 2020, we were overjoyed to learn we were pregnant with two healthy identical twin boys after enduring three consecutive miscarriages. We had often dreamed about having twins.
The boys were referred to as Baby A and Baby B by the doctors. We had decided early on that if we had twin boys, we’d name them Seamus and Killian, strong Irish names! But as we sat in the car examining the ultrasounds, my joy began to dwindle.
“John… I know this is morbid, but I want to designate which baby will be Seamus and which will be Killian. Just in case… I don’t want to choose later.”
Halfway through the pregnancy came the devastating news; Killian was terminally ill. No chance for survival. Since he and Seamus shared a placenta, the doctors advised us to sever Killian’s umbilical cord to save Seamus. If we did nothing, we might lose both.
So, I carried them until the end.
With every appointment, we checked on Seamus, watching him wiggle and turn. We joked about his future as a dancer or soccer player.
Then, with a heavy heart, we’d turn to scan for Killian’s lifeless form.
At first, he was similar in size and shape to Seamus, but as time passed, he shrank, forced into a pocket under my ribs as Seamus grew. Each ultrasound served as a painful reminder of the lives intertwined yet so different.
I grew up thinking pregnancy was a joyful experience. A budding belly symbolizes a miracle, something to celebrate. But no one told me how common miscarriage and loss were.
I didn’t know it was possible to be pregnant and have a miscarriage without realizing it. I’d experience the worst pain of my life without understanding it. 2017 taught me the harsh realities.
I didn’t know doctors could casually declare that a pregnancy wasn’t viable or suggest surgical options as if they were taking out the garbage. Spring of 2019 opened my eyes to that reality.
I learned that questioning “Why does this keep happening?” could lead to a fancy office and a doctor who suggested a hefty price tag for a chance at children. Fall of 2019 was another lesson.
Even when both babies appeared healthy early on, I felt the sting of well-meaning comments from strangers.
“Oh, is this your first child?” I often thought, No, but hopefully, they’ll be our first to live.
After losing Killian, we grappled with two realities. Out in public, people would excitedly ask about the baby’s gender.
What do I say without unloading my grief on someone who just wanted to share in the joy? At home, we would hold each other tightly, taking duplicates off our baby registry.
Pregnancy often transforms bodies into topics of conversation. A pregnant belly invites questions and comments. But most of these inquiries only make sense when pregnancy is perceived as a joyous journey, not an uncertain and sometimes painful experience.
People engage based on their expectations of pregnancy rather than its complexities. I can’t recall anyone genuinely asking how I was handling it emotionally.
What I truly missed in those moments was acknowledgment of how pregnancy can be heavy or fragile. The presumption of happiness didn’t comfort me; it created a gulf rather than connection.
Near the end of my twin pregnancy, I remember waddling around Walmart when a stranger struck up a conversation about a book I held. I felt a wave of excitement; I was desperate for social interaction, especially during COVID-19. Just as I was about to ask them a question, they playfully remarked,
“You sure you don’t have two in there?”
Like the bus driver, they were being playful. Their intentions were good, but it left me feeling hollow, a visceral reminder of my loss.
Even when pregnancies progress healthily, they can carry considerable emotional weight. Invisible grief is isolating, yet I’ve come to realize it’s more common than we think. So many people carry more than they visibly show.
This experience now shapes how I approach conversations with pregnant individuals. I’m mindful of my words and prefer to ask about their feelings instead of their appearance. I’ve learned that what someone’s body exhibits doesn’t reveal the full story.
Sometimes, the most significant thing we can provide is simply space for what might be unwritten beneath the surface.
