Taking a Risk to Save Them Both

I’m 23 weeks pregnant with twin girls. Identical. Mono-di. We found out a few weeks ago, and ever since, I’ve been riding a wave of awe, anxiety, and fragile hope. I’d been checking off every milestone like tiny, quiet prayers—each one a little exhale. We saw both babies moving on ultrasounds. They looked good. Growing well. The high-risk label made me nervous, but things had been okay. Until they weren’t.

Yesterday, we were told the words no expectant parent of twins wants to hear: Stage 3 Twin-to-Twin Transfusion Syndrome.

Just one week ago, their ultrasound had been normal. Growth was concordant, fluids looked good. I had allowed myself to believe we were in the clear. But TTTS doesn’t give warnings. It doesn’t build gradually. It strikes fast, and it strikes hard.

I was admitted to the Maternal-Fetal Medicine service. The room was cold, clinical. The lighting too bright. It felt like the world had narrowed to a white ceiling and the steady beep of monitors I hadn’t even realized were on. I couldn’t stop crying. The fear settled deep in my chest, heavy and raw. It’s a very specific kind of heartbreak—the terror of knowing your babies are in danger and there is nothing you can do but wait, hope, and let someone else take the reins.

The doctors moved quickly. Laser ablation surgery was scheduled for the next morning. I spent the night staring at the ceiling, thinking of every possible outcome, every little heartbeat inside me, and how badly I want them both to make it. I pressed my hands to my belly more times than I could count. I whispered to them, begged them to hang on.

UPDATE:

The procedure was done. Laser ablation completed. All the abnormal connections between their placental vessels were ablated. They removed 1.5 liters of amniotic fluid from the recipient twin, the one with polyhydramnios. It’s staggering to think how much pressure must have been building inside. But both babies tolerated the procedure. Both hearts beat strong through it all.

I exhaled for the first time in what felt like days.

The fear hasn’t disappeared. It may never fully leave. We’re still walking a tightrope. I know that. But right now, today, both of my daughters are still with me. And I’m holding onto that with everything I’ve got.

If you're reading this and you’re going through something similar, please know: you’re not alone. This kind of grief and fear runs deep, and it’s real. It’s okay to feel broken, terrified, angry. It’s okay to cry so hard your chest aches. And it’s okay to hope, even when hope feels dangerous.

For now, I’m holding onto gratitude and cautiously rebuilding my belief that maybe, just maybe, we’ll be okay.

UPDATE #2:

Then, this week. I went in for what was supposed to be a routine check, the first since spacing out to biweekly ultrasounds. I was 31 weeks. And that’s when they told me. One of my girls — the one who had been giving so much to her sister — was gone. No heartbeat. No movement. Just stillness on the screen. She was measuring a little small, so they think she passed about two weeks ago.

I cannot begin to explain the weight of that moment. The screaming silence in the room. The impossible realization that I had been carrying her—dead—unknowingly, for days. I keep thinking, What kind of mother doesn’t know?

The grief is indescribable. One moment I’m crying so hard I can’t breathe, and the next I’m smiling nervously at my other kids, trying to act normal, to carry on. I have two young children at home who still need me. And one baby still growing inside me who’s depending on me. Baby B looks strong for now. She's still moving, still alive. But we won’t know more until her fetal MRI, to assess for any neurological impact. The goal is to make it to 36 weeks.

But that means seven more weeks of carrying them both — one alive, one not. Seven more weeks of split realities. One belly. Two stories. Only one heartbeat. How do I celebrate one baby while mourning the other? How do I prepare for life and death at the same time? There are moments I feel guilty for crying. And others when I feel guilty for smiling.

I keep coming back to the last time I saw them both healthy, active, side by side on the screen. I didn’t know it would be the last time. I didn’t know I’d be saying goodbye without even realizing it.

I have no answers. My doctors don’t have answers either. The “why” may never be fully known. And that hurts. Because I would have done anything to save her. But I’m still here. Still carrying them both. Still showing up. Still loving them both — one in my arms soon, I hope; the other, forever in my heart.

If you’ve walked this road, or anything like it, I’m listening. I could use your words. I could use your strength. Because right now, I’m trying to find my own, one breath at a time.