My Daughter Was A Twin
“So it was actually twins, but….”
My body freezes. In the timespan of about one millisecond, a million things run through my head.
“Where are they going to sleep?
“I didn’t know my body was capable of conceiving twins.”
“Will my oldest feel left out? The other two will have a special bond she won’t have.”
“My husband always wanted twins, but he wanted to have twins first.”
“Do we have enough rooms? Are we going to have to move?”
“Wait, I think he just said it WAS twins.”
I revisit reality. I’m sitting on the cold cushions in my doctor’s office at my eight-week appointment after my initial ultrasound. My doctor continues, “It was two embryos, but one embryo isn’t fully developed. The other embryo is totally fine. Your body and the other embryo are going to reabsorb the underdeveloped one. I’m not worried about this at all. This kind of thing isn’t NOT normal, but it’s also not super normal. The developed baby is going to be totally fine and not affected at all.”
My doctor remains extremely serious and neutral throughout the entire conversation. He does not offer empathy or any social cues that indicate he believes this is any type of loss. Although I know he is behaving this way as a part of his job, I leave the appointment thinking, “Should I be sad about this?”
I don’t cry. I don’t call my husband. I don’t call anyone. I just drive home and wait for my husband to come home.
When he does, I share with him what I was just told. He listens, and the only words that leave his mouth are, “Wow.”
He is silent for a moment, then gathers words to continue.
“But the one baby is okay, right?”
“That’s what the doctor said. He didn’t act worried at all. He said this isn’t super normal but it’s also not NOT normal”
“It still makes me nervous, though.”
“Yeah, me too.”
As time goes on, we start referring to the embryos as “the main baby” and “the other baby.” I don’t like these terms, but I don’t know how else to describe what is happening inside of me.
I am eight weeks pregnant. With our oldest, we did not tell anyone we were pregnant until twelve weeks, a practice we were planning to continue with our second baby. Now, we are unsure.
“So, should we tell anyone?”
“I don’t know. What if something happens to the main baby before twelve weeks?”
“I mean, even if something happens, we will still tell our family and close friends that something happened. We might as well tell them now so they can pray for us and the baby.”
“That’s true.”
We share the news with our parents and a handful of close friends. We ask them to pray.
///
I learn later that this condition is called “Vanishing Twin Syndrome.”
I learn that sometimes mothers do not even know they conceived twins and that one was absorbed, because the extra embryo has completely vanished by the time of their first ultrasound. My doctor does ultrasounds at eight weeks, so he saw mine.
Sure enough, at my twelve-week ultrasound, the extra embryo had completely vanished.
///
Around 20 weeks or so into my pregnancy, I am checking out at the counter of my doctor’s office. After typing my name into the computer to schedule my next appointment, the young secretary unsurely asks, “Are you having twins?”
I consider explaining, but I decide not to. I answer simply.
“No.”
She pauses and continues staring at her screen.
“I guess, were you ever having twins?”
Again, I answer simply.
“Yes.”
She nods. “I gotcha, it’s just coming up as Fetus A and Fetus B on your account so I just needed to change that.”
I nod.
“So, did it happen really early on?”
“It did.”
“I guess it’s better that way, right? It’s better than it growing and growing and something happening during your delivery, right?”
I am unsure how to respond. Is the loss of a baby “better” if it happens when they are only an embryo? Is my loss less significant than a mother who carried their baby to full term? Should I be more or less sad than the next mother who doesn’t bring home a baby that they conceived?
I respond simply again. “I guess so.”
///
When it comes to baby names, my husband and I are incredibly decisive. We like to have baby names for both genders decided on and ready to roll before we even get pregnant.
For our first pregnancy, our girl name was Leigh and our boy name was Rhys. She was a girl, so we used the name Leigh.
For our second pregnancy, we still liked the name Rhys and wanted to use it if possible. Even though it’s a gender-neutral name, we preferred it for a boy. We came up with Rhylan as the girl name counterpart and purposefully spelled it to mimic the spelling of Rhys.
///
“Where are they going to sleep?
“I didn’t know my body was capable of conceiving twins.”
“Will my oldest feel left out? The other two will have a special bond she won’t have.”
“My husband always wanted twins, but he wanted to have twins first.”
“Do we have enough rooms? Are we going to have to move?”
“Rhylan and Rhys are perfect twin names.”
“Wait, I think he just said it WAS twins.”
///
It was twins. My daughter has a twin, and in my head, their name is Rhys. We always got to use all of our baby names.
///
Rhys’s embryo vanished after the eight-week ultrasound, but evidence of them still remains.
My daughter, Rhylan, was labeled “Fetus A” on all of her ultrasound prints until midway through my pregnancy, reminding us that there was once a “Fetus B” right alongside her.
///
The brief and fleeting existence of Rhys does not bring me grief. Rather, it brings me joy.
The joy of knowing that all our baby names had a purpose and a placement. Joy that my body was a safe and harmless place. The joy of simply knowing about my baby’s existence, instead of them coming and going without a trace. It is a gift to know of them, to give them a name, to give them life beyond the titles of the other baby, my daughter’s twin, or Fetus B. It is a gift to have given life, prayed for the life, and to honor the space that was held by our sweet Rhys.
