My husband, I’ll just call him J, and I have been together nearly 12 years. We met in my second semester of college and never really left each other’s side. We got married in 2019 and by the end of 2021 we figured it was time to try for a baby. We already had a house full of pets, but we wanted to add a little human to the mix.
Luckily, it didn’t take long. On March 12, 2022, we found out I was pregnant. I had dreamed of being a mom forever, so those first few days felt unreal. It seemed like the perfect timing for our lives and I walked around smiling at everything.
We didn’t tell anyone right away. I wanted to, badly, but we waited until the doctor could confirm. At my first ultrasound I thought I knew what was coming based on movies and articles online, but I was so wrong.
The tech squinted at the screen and said, “Uh, I see two babies.”
J asked, “Are you serious?”
“As serious as a heart attack,” she said.
My mind spun. Did she really say twins? No one I knew had twins. It felt unreal. Later my OB explained they were identical, sharing one placenta, which meant a high-risk pregnancy. I’d probably need a C-section early. I was thrilled, but scared too. If I’m honest, a little sad about the C-section part. But the joy of having two babies quickly won out.
The first months went fine. I loved watching my body grow. Every new stretch mark felt like proof I was building life. But then the doctors noticed Baby B was growing faster than Baby A. At another visit my cervix had shortened more than expected. Things were starting to get tense.
At 25 weeks and 3 days, an ultrasound showed Baby A wasn’t getting the same blood flow as her sister. Because they shared a placenta, that was a big deal. The doctor said I needed to check into the hospital right away. The babies weren’t coming that day, but they wanted me closely watched.
We went home long enough to pack and call our families, then J and I moved into a hospital room. I felt fine physically, which made it strange to be admitted. My babies were monitored around the clock with bands on my belly. Because of COVID I couldn’t leave or have visitors. I half-joked to a nurse that I felt like an incubator, not really a patient.
We both worked from our laptops in the hospital. J ran home to let out the dogs and handle the house. We fell into a routine: nurses checking heartbeats, ultrasounds every few days, surprisingly decent hospital food.
On my sixth day, the specialist said I might be able to go home soon if the next scan looked good. That night, nurses had trouble finding the babies on the monitors because they were wiggly. After they left, I stood to go to the bathroom and suddenly felt liquid run down my leg. Blood was everywhere. Time froze.
I called the nurse. Panic hit me hard. She tried to reassure me, saying some women stay pregnant for weeks after their water breaks. Deep down, I knew that wouldn’t be me. I texted J to come back right away. When he walked in I hugged him and whispered, “I’m so scared.”
Tests confirmed my water broke. I was fully dilated; Baby A’s head was already in the birth canal. Because they shared a placenta, an emergency C-section was my only option. J couldn’t come in the OR. Within minutes the room was full of nurses and doctors. It felt like I was floating above my body watching someone else’s life.
They rushed me to surgery. The room was freezing and I shook from fear. As the mask went over my face, a nurse rubbed my hair and said, “It’s going to be okay.” I wanted to believe her, but my babies were only 26 weeks. None of us were ready, but it was happening.
