“You have a very sick baby,” the doctor told us. “I’m as close to 100% sure as I can be that Killian won’t survive.”
Killian rolled over to his side just under my ribs, like a tired kid in bed not wanting to see the sun come in through the blinds. At the same time, his identical twin brother, Seamus, danced beneath him, oblivious to the news we had just received.
We were halfway through a twin pregnancy after three consecutive miscarriages. We were ecstatic to be doubling our home with these two boys, and we celebrated their existence and growth every day. Then we received a concerning diagnosis. Killian had several health issues, but the main problem we were staring at was something called TTTS (Twin to Twin Transfusion Syndrome). In a normal, healthy identical twin pregnancy, the twins have blood vessels that connect to their own section of the placenta. Our boys, though, had blood vessels that were connected directly to one another. They were passing their blood back and forth, and Killian was dying. The aftershock that would travel through those blood vessels to Seamus once Killian passed could be lethal.
We needed to act quickly. If we did not intervene before Killian died, we risked losing both of our boys. We needed to end Killian’s life in order to save Seamus’s.
We’d spent months envisioning our two sons driving us mad with their love and chaos. We had doubles of everything on our baby registry. We had names, outfits, and even songs we sang to each of them. We wanted the choice to fight for both to live. The choice to raise them together, like we were meant to do. But we also needed to be good parents, parents who protect their children. And the child we could protect, in that moment, was Seamus.
Abortion is often framed as something separate from motherhood: You have an abortion and are no longer a mother, or have avoided becoming a mother. But there are also mothers who have abortions. Mothers who want large families, several kids, or want, for the love of God, at least one healthy, living child.
Everyone’s story and perspective is different, but I’d claimed the title of “mother” since my first positive pregnancy test. As my eyes processed that large blue plus sign, a new version of love and dedication exploded through my chest. Every choice I made moving forward was no longer solely for me. My own dreams and aspirations took a back seat while our children’s futures rode shotgun.
For me, motherhood includes the mental shifts, the sacrifices, the preparation for when you get to hold your newborn. I had already suffered three losses, and although I had yet to cradle a baby of my own, my DNA swam with theirs. Their fetal cells transferred to me, and would remain inside of me for the rest of my life. Microchimerism. Forever a part of each other. Always connected.
After Killian’s procedure, I would carry both boys until their birthday, one alive, one deceased: life and death, love and loss, what was and what would never be. We slowly went through the baby registry and removed what we would no longer need. We’d run into people in the store who would ask us, “How are the twins doing?” while gesturing to my engorged belly, and I’d feel grateful that my COVID mask covered most of my face as I lied about how we were, or, in some extreme cases, told them the truth.
As Seamus grew, we sang to him and told him about our day, while my husband, John, laid his head on my chest and rubbed my belly; we let ourselves enjoy shopping for the items we’d need for his arrival. We tried to amplify the light when the shadows attempted to creep their way in. When Seamus was born, we dressed him in his newborn outfit while the funeral home poured Killian’s remains into an urn the size of my palm.
