Bethany’s Story

There were two lines on the pregnancy test. Two lines!

After three years of infertility, countless negative tests, being told by doctors we had a 2% chance of conceiving without fertility treatments, and deciding just five days prior to stop trying and pursue adoption—there were two lines telling me I was pregnant.

I couldn’t believe it. I had dreamt of this day for years. Praying, hoping, and waiting. I’d always assumed I’d break down in tears. Instead, I felt a sense of amazement. My husband David was in the same boat. It’s safe to say we were in some degree of shock.

But it was nothing compared to the shock the next nine months would hold for us.

Even after taking eight pregnancy tests, I struggled to accept that I was, indeed, pregnant. A good friend encouraged me to have an early ultrasound for the sake of my sanity, so at around 6-weeks, my husband and I went to my OBGYN.

I was terrified it was all some strange mistake. There was no reason to believe this outside of my fear, but the anxiety was so potent. I sat in the waiting room, forcing myself to breathe deeply as I prayed for peace.

Twenty minutes later, our ultrasound technician located the baby and its tiny gestational sac. “There’s your baby. Oh, and, there’s another gestational sac. It’s pretty early, but you’ve got two babies in there!”

Twins! After years of infertility! David and I laughed, embraced the shock, and told our close friends and family with laughter and a lot of joy. We knew it was very early, but wanted those who had walked with us through infertility to walk through this season with us whatever happened.

The OBGYN referred us to a maternal fetal medicine (MFM) since I was already high-risk at 35 years old, and twins added an extra layer to that complexity. Plus, our twins were mono-di identical twins, meaning they shared an outer sac but had two inner separate sacs. This, too, increased the risk factors of the pregnancy.

For the next three months, David and I spent more than the regular amount of time at the doctor between OBGYN and MFM appointments.

Thankfully, the twins were growing and developing well. We got to see them through ultrasounds frequently, and we loved every minute of it. We also found out they were boys.

And then we had our appointment in mid-August. I was 16 weeks pregnant.

Our MFM doctor came in after our ultrasound and said he’d like us to go down to Johns Hopkins as a precautionary measure. The placenta and the boys’ cords were visible now, and the cords appeared to be entering the placenta at the exact same spot. This would likely cause issues with the boys’ growth and development—and it was extremely rare. Our doctors told us neither they nor the Johns Hopkins team would likely ever see a similar case to ours in their entire careers.

After the ultrasound at Johns Hopkins, the doctor discussed the situation with us in a conference room. She also emphasized how rare our situation was. Our boys’ cords were conjoined entering the placenta. This was leading to erratic blood flow for one of our boys, Ian. As blood flowed through our son’s heart, brain, and body, there was a hiccup that occurred at the end of each cycle before it restarted and, unfortunately, that hiccup could at any time lead to the cycle not restarting and Ian dying.

In addition to the uncertainty around Ian, his brother Nathan was at risk because if Ian died, Nathan would most likely die or end up with severe brain damage.

At one point the doctor mentioned “selective reduction” of Ian which is, of course, abortion. She said this is an option some parents take to preserve the life of the remaining twin but went on to say that there were no guarantees and that could still lead to the same outcome for Nathan.

Thankfully, even in that moment, neither my husband nor I were remotely tempted by that idea. It wasn’t even an option, and we told the doctor as much. But how do you respond to that? To being told at any moment your child could die, and his death could endanger your other child’s life?

My eyes welled up with tears. It was an impossible situation.

After we left the hospital, my husband and I cried in the car for a bit. I remember praying, asking God to help us to trust Him and to remember that the boys were always His first. And then, of course, begging Him to spare our sons’ lives.

There were more tears that night. Everything felt twinged with dread. My heart was so heavy, and all of the joy of the pregnancy seemed to have sapped out only to be replaced with a deep, pulsing fear.

The next morning I cried out to God and asked Him for help. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my pregnancy stricken with terror. I didn’t want to ruin every beautiful moment I carried my boys.

Back with our MFM doctors, we were again asked us about “selective reduction.” By the grace of God, I was able to say that I believed that was abortion and that, as a Christian, I truly trusted that God was in control; He could choose to save one or both of our sons.

Over the next seven weeks, Ian’s blood flow stayed fairly consistent. The doctors were discussing delivering me at 28 weeks although, if something occurred earlier, they suggested I deliver at Johns Hopkins.

Then about a week before my baby shower, Ian’s blood flow took a turn for the worse. This decline was especially serious, as I was only at 24 weeks and there was nothing they could do short of delivering me, which would have been very dangerous at that time.They decided to give me a course of steroid shots in hopes of speeding the boys’ development and helping Ian’s blood flow.

And miraculously, it seemed to work! My next appointment showed improvement for Ian. We were so grateful!

But two days later, everything changed.

In the afternoon, I had an optical migraine. Concerned that I might have preeclampsia, I called my doctor, and they told me to come in. All morning I had been feeling the boys move, so I wasn’t worried about their health, only that I may have to deliver even earlier than expected.

Less than two hours after my headache, the ultrasound technician began the scan with Ian.

David and I knew immediately he was gone.

We could see he wasn’t moving, and there was no heartbeat. For a split second we held on to hope that we were misunderstanding what we seeing, until the ultrasound technician softly confirmed it.

No words can convey the guttural pain that swept over both of us. I cried, “My baby. My poor, sweet baby,” and began sobbing. I felt like a part of my heart died in that moment. I suppose in many ways it did.

So many prayers. So much hope. So much joy. Now turned to ashes and fear. They let us cry for a few minutes but the doctor came in soon with the ultrasound technician because they needed to look at Nathan. I wept uncontrollably as they did the scan and had one small moment of relief when they found Nathan and his heartbeat.

Nathan was in a lot of danger. He was severely anemic, which could lead to brain damage or heart failure without intervention. I had two options: Go to the local hospital and get a C-section at 24 weeks, or drive 81 miles to Johns Hopkins for a procedure that might not even work. Although our doctor believed I was okay to be transported by car, he couldn’t assure us that Nathan would still be alive by the time we got there.

David gritted his teeth and drove us the hour and a half to Baltimore. I managed to call my mom and two close friends. David called his dad and our small group leader. We asked them to share the news with friends and our small group, and then we hit the road.

Thankfully Nathan continued to make his normal movements inside me, right up until we got to the hospital. He seemed to consistently be letting us know that he was here, and he was still okay.

When we got to Johns Hopkins, we were rushed into a small room that was soon crammed with the NICU team, fetal therapy doctors, and nurses. They quickly located Nathan’s heartbeat. He was alive, but struggling; his heart was starting to fail.

They told us they were going to do a blood transfusion on him in utero to see if they could resolve the anemia and heart failure. This meant they would have to temporarily paralyze him and run a line to Nathan inside of me.

The procedure wasn’t a guaranteed success. If Nathan rejected the blood transfusion, they would have to put me under and deliver him via an emergency C-section. At 24 weeks with severe anemia, he would be extremely sick and would have only a 50% chance of survival. Additionally, if he did survive, there was a large chance he would have brain damage.

About two hours later we went into the operating room. The whole procedure took about an hour, and I was incredibly sick the entire time. That night was awful. David and I were overwhelmed by sadness, and I was attached to so many machines that sleep was impossible. On top of everything, there had been issues with the catheter they had inserted in case of an emergency C-section, so after it was removed, I couldn’t even go to the bathroom without excruciating pain. I remember crying and telling David that I hated everything because I was so tired and sad, and I couldn’t even pee.

The next morning, Nathan was already showing signs of improvement. We were told to rest for the day in the hospital, and that they would do another ultrasound the following morning to decide if he needed another transfusion. The following morning, Nathan had again improved, and they released us to our MFM doctors back home.

That next week, Nathan showed more improvement. The Johns Hopkins team told us we would still need an MRI to determine if there was any lasting brain damage from the severe anemia Nathan had experienced. Two weeks later, we trekked down to Baltimore again for the MRI. Praise God, everything looked good.

Funny enough, the rest of my pregnancy was fairly nondescript. My doctors watched me like a hawk, but Nathan continued to grow and develop well.

As we continued to process through the grief of losing Ian, we had difficult discussions with doctors about what to expect regarding Ian’s body. We were told that as Nathan grew, Ian’s body would become more and more compressed. Likely he would not look like a baby at all by the time he was delivered, and they weren’t sure we would even be able to hold him. I cried a lot after those conversations. Our doctors were concerned how difficult it would be emotionally to see Ian’s body, but both of us wanted to see and hold his body to say goodbye.

Finally, at around 38 weeks, my water broke. The next evening, I had a C-section to deliver Nathan, as my labor was not progressing and his heart rate was started to spike.

When we heard Nathan cry for the first time and were able to hold him, the relief was palpable. Incredibly, David and I were also able to hold our little Ian, too, and see his face and some of his features. Plus, our incredible nurses took Ian’s handprints and footprints as keepsakes.

The next day when Nathan was napping, we said goodbye to Ian’s body. It was one of the hardest moments of my life. Even though we knew his soul wasn’t in his body, both David and I felt like we were sending our child away from us. We would never see or hold him on this side of heaven again. We knew it was time, though, as his poor, broken body was beginning to blister.

Less than a week after getting out of the hospital, we buried Ian. His brother was wrapped up in the carseat next to me. I wept as we drove away that day, again feeling like we were leaving our son behind and aching to hold him one last time.

Grieving a lost son while taking care of a live son is a strange and tumultuous journey.

Everything over the last several months has been so incredibly intense that at times I don’t even know how I feel. The grief hits in waves. Sometimes when I’m holding Nathan, I find myself weeping over the son I can’t hold close. The smallest things remind me of my baby who isn’t with me. The son I’ll never know outside of my body on this side of heaven.

And yet, I can still look over this last year and see God’s mercy in the loved ones who brought us meals and cried and prayed with us. I can see God’s mercy in how He gave me the gift of being able to live in the moment and treasure every second I had carrying my boys; while anxious, I was not consumed.

I can also, of course, see God’s hand in saving Nathan’s life and keeping him healthy even after doctors had told us repeatedly that we would lose both boys or Nathan would have brain damage. I can see God’s mercy in the support and love of my husband, who more than anyone took the brunt of my pain and sad days. I can even see God’s mercy in the C-section, which allowed us to hold Ian’s body, something I don’t believe would have been possible if I had delivered vaginally.

But even so, I have many moments where I feel hollowed out and irreparably broken. I wonder why God went so far to rescue Nathan’s life, but not Ian’s. I question why God formed Ian so perfectly inside of my body, only to be unformed and broken inside of me. I don’t have the answers to those questions. And I don’t think I ever will.

I know as believers we aren’t promised an easy life. So in some ways, it’s not surprising when we face really difficult circumstances and losses.

But the truth is that I can know all the right answers, and my heart can still be broken because I don’t like what God allowed. I can know that God will redeem all things and use them for His glory. I can know that Ian is safer in the arms of Jesus than he ever would have been in my arms. Yet emotionally, a large part of me doesn’t care. I want my son. Here. With us.

And I am okay wrestling between what I know to be true and what I feel. I don’t believe God asks me to be glad my son is dead, although He does ask me to trust Him. Death was never a part of God’s original plan, and I believe it angers Him to see how it hurts His children—even though He is sovereign and allows it to happen.

It’s a weird tightrope to walk: God’s sovereignty and yet His love for us, and His anger at death. But I believe it is true because of how He responds to Lazarus’s death in the New Testament. In a strange way, it helps me to know that. To know that God isn’t just telling me to buck up and trust Him. He understands how painful grief can be. And He has given us countless verses and stories in the Bible where His people wrestle through grief and sorrow with Him.

He is big enough to handle it. All of my questions and grief and sadness and anger. All of my lack of faith. All of my failure to trust Him as I should. I don’t have to “hold on” to my faith, because through the life and death of Jesus Christ, He is holding onto me. I’ve never had enough faith. He’s always been the one holding onto me.

And He’ll keep holding on, through all of the tears.

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Bethany Georgia lives in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, with her husband and son. She has been a believer from childhood and enjoys writing on her blog, reading, music, and baking. Her background is in marketing but she is currently a stay-at-home mom.

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