Note: This post was written for Michaela Evanow’s blog series on “This is Motherhood (Too).” This article was originally posted on Michaela’s site on August 10, 2015.
I was eight weeks pregnant when the ultrasound technician turned a grainy screen towards me and pointed out not one but two little miracles. And in that moment, with two hearts blinking on the screen and cold jelly oozing down my belly, all fears dissipated. My husband and I could only marvel at the God who delights in giving such sweet surprises.
Amazed, we stumbled out of the appointment with a fistful of fuzzy ultrasound photos and the reassurance that One greater than ourselves was holding this pregnancy in the palm of His hand.
Like any multiples pregnancy, the hospital quickly slapped a “high risk” label on us but we barely felt it. Words like “a perfect pregnancy” were tossed around at every doctor’s appointment and I naively went through each day as if untouchable. After all, it was abundantly clear that God had orchestrated this entire experience—how could anything go wrong?
The change happened almost overnight.
Rambunctious flips and robust kicks faded into subtle flutters and I knew in my heart that something was wrong. As if putting words to our fears would somehow make it all the more real, we drove to the hospital without telling anyone where we were headed.
Almost overnight, our two boys had begun experiencing an acute form of Twin to Twin Transfusion—a syndrome which occurs only with identical twins. Blood was being shuttled from one baby to the other. Our sweet, little Alistair had passed most of his blood and amniotic fluid to his brother, Landon, whose heart was struggling to handle the additional pressure.
By the time we arrived at the hospital, it was too late.
As they wheeled me into surgery, my ribs were bruised by one final kick: a farewell message of love from my firstborn, a gentle whisper to remain strong, and a promise that we would one day meet again.