Our daughter, Hannah, was about to turn five when we decided it was time to try for baby number two. After roughly six months of trying, I started noticing all the classic signs—I was beyond exhausted, plagued by terrible headaches, and just didn’t feel like myself. I took two pregnancy tests, both negative, but my intuition told me differently. A week later, while home alone one afternoon, I took another test—and finally, it confirmed what I had felt for three weeks… I was pregnant! Tears of joy streamed down my face as I called my best friend, needing to share the news immediately. I wanted to tell Matt in a special way, though. During my first pregnancy, I had craved Blizzards constantly, so I went to Dairy Queen, bought a gift card, and wrote a note: “I know this seems like a nice gift for you, but you’re going to need it for all the Blizzards you’ll be getting me for the next nine months! You’re going to be a Daddy again!!” When he came home that evening, after Hannah had gone to bed, I handed him the gift. His face lit up in pure joy.
We decided to wait a few weeks before telling Hannah, just to be sure everything was progressing normally. Around six weeks, we finally shared the news with her. We got her a little book called I’m a Big Sister while my mom was visiting. Hannah opened it and looked at me, bewildered. “Nuh-uh, I’m not a big sister!” she insisted. I explained, “Yes, you are! I’m pregnant!” She paused, then shook her head: “No, you’re not! You don’t have a pregnant belly!” I gently explained that it would take time for my belly to grow, and slowly, the excitement dawned on her. My mom was in tears, delighted to see Hannah understand that she would soon have a sibling.
It was a good thing we told her when we did because my pregnancy took a difficult turn very quickly. The nausea and vomiting became overwhelming, so much so that by six weeks, I ended up in the hospital dehydrated. My OB agreed to see me early at eight weeks because of my condition. I recounted my symptoms: constant nausea, vomiting, headaches—I had lost 11 pounds in three days. I was terrified something was wrong. During the visit, my doctor performed an ultrasound, and my heart sank, fearing the worst. Then she said, “Well, there is a reason you’re feeling this way.” I braced myself, expecting bad news. Instead, she smiled and said, “I usually joke about this, but after hearing your symptoms… you have two babies in there!”
Matt and I broke down in tears. We had only planned for another baby, and now we were expecting twins! Our doctor, a twin mom herself, shared resources with us, and though we were overwhelmed, we were thrilled. I called my mom from the parking lot, and she laughed and cried at the news. There was no history of twins in our families, so it truly felt miraculous.
At our eight-week appointment, we learned the sexes of the babies. My mom helped us surprise the family with a cake at Thanksgiving—pink and blue! Hannah was ecstatic. She couldn’t wait to have a baby sister to dress up and share JoJo bows with. We shared the happy news with friends and family on Facebook that November. The excitement was palpable, even amid the relentless nausea that never seemed to end.
Our 19-week scan, however, brought unimaginable news. Matt and I met at the doctor’s office, hearts full of hope but nervous. Baby A, Cameron, looked perfect. Then came Baby B, Camille. The ultrasound tech skipped measuring her head at first, and when she finally did, she turned to us gravely: “There’s something wrong with Baby B. Have you heard of anencephaly?” I knew immediately—it meant our baby girl wouldn’t survive.
The doctor explained gently that this defect was incompatible with life. I would have to carry Camille to term to protect Cameron, but she reassured us that he should be fine in his separate sac. We left the office numb. Picking up Hannah from school later, seeing her carefree joy, broke my heart. How could we explain that the sister she had been dreaming of for weeks would never come home with us? My mom called incessantly, and I found a quiet moment in the bathroom to tell her the news. That first night, I couldn’t sleep—I researched, cried, and tried to brace myself for the reality of what was to come. That night, for the first time, I felt Camille kick from the outside—it was her little presence, reminding me she was still with us.
The following day, a doula specializing in terminal pregnancies helped me find a way to embrace the remainder of Camille’s life. She encouraged me to “box up the sadness” to make room for joy, make daily memories, and create keepsakes to honor Camille’s brief life. I took her advice to heart.
We told Hannah a few days later. She was initially confused: “So I’ll only have a baby brother?” When we explained that Camille would be born but would soon go to heaven, Hannah became angry and heartbroken. She wanted a sister to play with, do her hair, and share Barbies with. That night, she brought me her lovey to take with Camille—a moment that broke Matt too. Together, we began writing letters to share with family, asking for love, support, and prayers during this unimaginably hard time.
Our family responded with overwhelming kindness. My mom and step-sister hosted a baby sprinkle, and we received precious keepsakes for Camille—personalized blankets, a tiny gown, items to remember her by. It was beautiful, yet devastating to celebrate Cameron while mourning Camille.
At 36 weeks and six days, my blood pressure spiked, and we were scheduled for a C-section the following day. On May 24th, at 7:00 a.m., Cameron was born, followed by Camille one minute later. She was initially gray, but almost immediately pinked up. Our immediate family met both babies in the recovery room. The room was decorated in purple butterflies—a symbol of loss and remembrance.
Camille struggled to regulate her temperature and couldn’t feed, but she was alive. We decided not to intervene medically, instead holding her, loving her, and counting each precious minute. Watching Cameron thrive while mourning Camille was a rollercoaster of emotions. The third night, as Camille had tiny seizures, I prayed for her comfort and peace.
On the morning of May 28th, at 5:24 a.m., Camille passed peacefully in Matt’s arms. We held her, kissed her tiny cheeks, and cherished every moment. The hospital assisted us with keepsakes, and Mid-West Transplant honored her with a plaque, recognizing her precious life.
Nearly six months later, Camille’s absence is felt every day. I imagine the twins playing together, and I see glimpses of her in Cameron’s closeness and love for touch. Matt painted Camille’s heartbeat in Cameron’s room, and we talk to her every night. She will always be our daughter, and I will always be a twin momma.
