The Complication of Grieving A Twin Child
It’s been nearly a year since our son Ian died.
In May 2022, my husband and I were overjoyed to find out we were pregnant after years of infertility. When we discovered early on that I was carrying twins, it felt like an extra special gift from God.
In many ways, it was. Carrying my two little guys together for six months was a precious gift I do not take for granted. While it was one of the most stressful seasons of my life, it was also one of the happiest.
But the day we were told Ian no longer had a heartbeat. Well, that day and that moment will forever be seared in my mind. Even all of these months later, I can’t think about it without feeling like I’m back there, experiencing the agony of loss all over again like a punch to the gut.
I can’t fully describe what it’s like to go from carrying two alive, identical twin boys to carrying only one living son. The grief is so tangled and complicated. I remember many moments of weeping for my son who died, only to have his brother begin kicking, moving and grooving inside of me as I sobbed.
Those moments have continued from the time Ian died to today, as my 8-month-old son sleeps in the other room. It is still difficult — and sometimes, impossible — to separate the joy from the pain.
I will enjoy a sweet quiet moment nursing Nathan and suddenly find myself weeping for the child I cannot hold. I’ll daydream about what Nathan will be like as a toddler and begin crying over the fact that I won’t get to see Ian grow up. My heart will fill with joy at Nathan’s smile and laughter, then be immediately broken wondering what Ian’s smile and laughter would have been like.
It’s not every moment, but it does happen frequently.
After Nathan was born, it was actually the unmixed moments that surprised me more: The moments where I looked at Nathan and only thought of or saw him. Those unmixed moments seem to grow more numerous as time goes by.
But the mixed grief creeps right back in as I write that, and my heart breaks because I shouldn’t have to choose between thinking of my two boys. They should both be here. Honestly, the emotions are so tangled some days that I can’t even follow the threads.
Because I love my son who is with me, and I want to celebrate him. I want to be joyful about his life and his health. But even though I know Ian is safely in the arms of Jesus — and that my son in heaven wants me to celebrate his brother — it can still feel like a betrayal when I don’t think about Ian every time I look at Nathan.
I don’t know if that makes logical sense. It does in my brain, and I think it might to any other mother who has lost a twin child. However, that emotion is a difficult one to articulate.
I’ve spent the last year learning about lament and grief in a way I never wanted to. Crying out to God with the questions I do not believe I will ever have an answer for. As time has passed, the questions have quieted but not evaporated. They still crop up occasionally.
Without warning I will find myself thinking, praying, asking God: “Why did You go to such great lengths to save Nathan but not Ian? Why not both of my boys?” Or, “Why did You allow us to have such joy, knowing it would burn up into ashes?”
And still, I don’t regret a single moment I carried my beautiful little boy. It was a gift that I got any time with him at all. And I absolutely know it is a gift that Nathan is healthy and with us today.
But even so, it hurts like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. It is as if a part of me died and was buried, and I suppose that is true; part of me was buried with my son.
I would say I’ve found comfort in my faith. However, the comfort hasn’t been in a sense of peace or that, “Someday, God will use this, and it will be worthwhile.” That statement still turns my stomach.
Because while I believe God can work redemptive purposes out of the pain, I also know that death was not part of His original plan. So truly, I believe He does not expect me to rejoice in the death of my son. Why would I rejoice in something that occurred because of the curse? Even Jesus, when He knew He would raise Lazarus from the grave, wept and was said to, “groan in the Spirit and be troubled.”
If the perfect Son of God behaved that way toward death, why should I behave any differently?
What I have been grateful for is the fact that God includes countless sources of lament within the Bible in Habakuk, Job, the Psalms and more. I’ve been grateful that I serve a God who is unafraid of my honest, brutal emotions and questions.
And I’ve been comforted by the fact that my faith doesn’t have to be strong enough to “hold on.” He is holding onto me. Not the other way around.
Even so, with all that truth and all that I know about God and even heaven, I wish Ian were here. With me. In my arms.
I don’t think that will ever change.
