Grief doesn’t end when you leave the hospital — in many ways, that’s when it begins.
Maddison - Teddy's mum
A few years ago, after almost a year of trying to conceive, we were quietly beginning to wonder if it would ever happen for us.
The end of 2024, we found out we were expecting during the week of our wedding. Just days later, surrounded by the people we loved most, we announced our pregnancy on our big day. It was everything we hoped for!
On our honeymoon, at around five weeks, we discovered we were having fraternal twins. Two babies. Two healthy heartbeats. We were immediately so excited & nervous as hell but we truly believed we could do this & planned their entire lives.
I had previously worked as a nanny for two families with twins, so when we found out, we were in shock but felt we could do this & we’re so excited. We started buying two of everything. Two cots. Two car seats. Two bassinets. Two prams.
Then our world shifted.
During a routine scan, the sonographer paused & put her hand on me & looked at my husband and I and said she could see something incredibly wrong with Twin B. I will never forget that moment. My husband and I were devastated — shocked, frightened. We wanted answers, but there were none. We sat in the room, silent for hours. I had a million questions nobody could answer.
That night, we returned home to all of our baby orders that had arrived, the worst timing. Mum came straight over and removed it from our house as it broke me looking at it.
As the months went on, we got many opinions & monitoring from specialists across Melbourne, we kept searching for answers
Further scans showed serious abnormalities. One expert told us he should pass away any day …but he didn’t. Twin B continued to survive, and his heart continued to beat, and he continued to grow alongside his healthy brother.
We were told the possible risks to my health, including going into preterm labour in the second trimester, and the terrifying possibility of losing both babies if twin B started to deteriorate or affect twin As health.
An amniocentesis was considered too dangerous, as it could risk our healthy twin and or bring on dangerously early labour.
We changed hospitals where early delivery of twins was possible, a hospital with a neonatal intensive care unit, should we have needed it for Twin B.
We regularly met with specialists at Monash, including the fetal monitoring unit and high-risk obstetric team led by Dr Carmel Welsh, who took on my pregnancy from here onwards.
We were faced with many horrible decisions - although the possible chance Twin B could be incompatible with life, we were also preparing for an unknown, complex short life with him, aware that his path could include many disabilities & medical challenges, where his life may have remained at hospital.
In the 3rd trimester, we also had a meeting with the palliative care team to plan for how his life would look with his complexities IF he were to survive.
This was confronting, and to be honest, I was scared.
We didn’t know whether our baby boy (twin B) would survive or be incompatible with life, or whether we might only have days, weeks or hours with him. We had SO many mixed expert opinions that seemed so conflicting, we just tried our best to be prepared for all possibilities. This was incredibly hard, and I felt robbed of my first pregnancy experience.
I didn’t want a baby shower initially or to decorate the baby room as I wasn’t in a good head space & didn’t know what the future held, but my husband, family & closest friends encouraged me to, and I’m so glad I did. My husband and mum put together our nursery, so I didn’t have to, and it surprised me.
It became a place I would go every night, praying everything would turn out & we would get through this.
The 3rd trimester came around & we would watch them grow on the screen week after week, side by side, kicking, nudging and shoving each other with their tiny bottoms, hands and heads. We loved seeing them together & hearing their hearts beating. The scans were long. Sometimes two plus hours. The team would look at every detail in the brains and organs of both babies and closely monitor both placentas.
On 22.7.2025, our scheduled caesarean arrived at 37 weeks, and Teddy entered the world stillborn. Leaving an imprint on our hearts that will last forever.
Nothing can prepare you for delivering one baby that died whilst your other surviving newborn faces his own challenges. Doctors noted significant differences in Teddy’s development, including a midline brain cyst that burst, altering his facial and body structure. This was something we weren’t prepared for.
After his birth, we were ready to meet him, the medical team & my obstetrician gently explained the extent of his physical abnormalities. With deep compassion, they prepared us for what we might see and carefully guided us through an unimaginably difficult decision. Based on their gentle but very detailed description of his ears, mouth, torso and down to his tiny toes.
We decided we wanted to protect the memory we would carry of our son, so we heartbreakingly chose to say goodbye until we meet again.
I had decorated the hospital room before surgery, so it was a special place to meet Teddy. We had led candles, fairy lights, matching personalised blankets, photos of our family and special music ready to play. We had planned to spend time with Teddy, to hold him, to honour him. Packing those decorations away in my hospital bed after making the hard decision broke something inside me. I regret not meeting him every day.
At the same time, our surviving twin, Kai, was rushed immediately after birth to the NICU. He was placed on life support for nine days. I got no time with him, no skin to skin. My husband slept beside him in a chair.
He watched our tiny baby connected to tubes, a CPAP, drips, and machines, unable to hold him, not knowing what was wrong.
I lay in my hospital bed recovering from my surgery, numb from grief, pumping milk for Kai. My husband would run back & forth all day and night to check on me and get my milk across to Kai for his feeding tubes. They set up a monitor so I could watch him from my hospital bed. All I wanted to do was be with him. But I was so sick myself, I had to get well,
Those were the longest minutes of my life.
I didn’t get to hold Kai properly for days. When I finally did, the incredible neonatal nurses would carefully bring him out of his isolette, and we would do skin-to-skin (also known as kangaroo care) for 15 minutes. It felt like the pain was bearable, and the world stopped. Nothing felt better than holding my baby boy. I can’t describe the feeling.
Eventually, I was discharged from my hospital stay. Kai remained in the Children’s Hospital. Whilst Teddy was undergoing an autopsy at another hospital.
Coming home to our empty house for a few nights— one baby passed away, one still fighting in intensive care — was one of the loneliest experiences of our lives.
Finally bringing Kai home from the NICU felt like a dream come true. As happy as I was, I couldn’t shake the nerves. Kai was no longer on life support, but that meant it was now all in our hands.
After days of adjusting to home life, Kai ended up back in the emergency. He required an unrelated category one, emergency surgery. He was just four and a half weeks old. He was then readmitted to the hospital for a week, battling a serious infection at just six weeks old.
But he is here. He is happy. He is strong. And we are so incredibly grateful and lucky.
Throughout our darkest days, Red Nose supported us.
The Red Nose support team contacted us regularly, providing counselling and grief support when the shock began to settle into reality. They sent a beautiful care package — a tiny hand-knitted outfit, booties and a beanie made by volunteers, and soft fabric for Teddy to be wrapped in. Teddy was cremated, along with a teddy bear his brother had cuddled and two letters from us. Some of his remains were donated to research after his autopsy, as a choice we made, in the hope of helping other families one day.
The autopsy only recently came back, and it was inconclusive. This result was another hard pill to swallow. We may never fully understand why this happened, although they believe it was chromosome-related and not our own fault. But we know this: all Teddy knew was love.
In the months that followed my birth, I needed support. I have worked closely with my psychologist and counsellor from Red Nose to process the trauma, grief and the complexity of raising a surviving twin while mourning another. This support helped us navigate mental health whilst also attending to Kai’s medical needs.
Grief doesn’t end when you leave the hospital — in many ways, that’s when it begins.
Teddy’s ashes are now at home with us. We speak about him every day. Kai will grow up knowing he is a twin. We believe Teddy watches over him.
Grief is weird. Some days I feel crushed by it. Other days I feel I’m okay. But it is getting easier to deal with, and we’re having happy moments again. I find myself to be a different person now. But I am slowly finding joy again
Red Nose has helped us navigate the unimaginable — not just the moment of loss, but the months that follow. The time that the rest of the world expects you to move forward. My support worker has also gone through a similar loss of her own. This has helped me connect with her on a deeper level. Luke and I will never forget the support we received from the people who were truly there for us.
We are a family of four. And Teddy will always be Kai’s twin.
We count our lucky stars every single day Kai is here with us and so grateful for his health.
Say Their Name Day is on March 25 – a special day to remember all of the little lives we have loved and lost, and support bereaved families.
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