By Cheyenna Timmsen
Mommy to twins Sarah & Michael
Micro-preemies, lost due to lung inefficiency
February 2021
I was 18 years old and working toward my college degree in biochemistry when I found out I was pregnant. It was during the pandemic, and the whole world already felt uncertain. Then we learned we weren’t just having one baby—we were having twins.
The pregnancy came with what doctors described as “normal” complications for twins, but as a first-time mom I figured I was simply nervous and that everything would be okay.
At 22 weeks and 5 days, I started having contractions. Everyone told me they were Braxton Hicks, but something inside me said otherwise. We made the hour-long drive to the hospital, where I learned I was actually in labor. The doctors told us they would do everything they could to stop it until I was far enough along to safely deliver the babies.
Despite their efforts, my body continued to labor. Their dad and I were told that if the babies were born that day, we would likely be saying goodbye in the operating room. Babies born before 23 weeks at that time would not receive lifesaving interventions. We were absolutely heartbroken.
Just four hours later, I delivered by C-section. To everyone’s surprise, our sweet babies were breathing. Sarah and Michael were rushed to the NICU.
Over the next 30 hours, we heard diagnosis after diagnosis. We were told how fragile they were, how damaged their lungs were becoming, how the brain bleeds continued to worsen, and how incompatible with life their conditions were. The doctors were honest with us. They had very little hope and encouraged us to simply cherish whatever time we had.
We forced ourselves to be realistic because we knew we couldn’t survive on endless hope. But every part of us wanted the doctors to be wrong.
Once we knew I was in labor, we had dreamed that our babies would be the ones to defy the odds. We didn’t care how long the NICU stay would be as long as one day they came home. We pictured ourselves years down the road with two sweet, feral toddlers running through the house, keeping us busy every moment of the day.
Instead, just 30 hours after they entered the world, we were faced with the unimaginable decision to remove life support. About an hour before that moment, the nurses suggested calling On Angels’ Wings.
They told us the photographs might be painful now because everything was still so fresh, but that years later they might become some of the only memories we would have.
They were right.
When the photographer walked into our room, everything suddenly felt safe. She wasn’t intimidated by all of the machines or by our babies’ tiny, fragile bodies. She fit right in and brought so much comfort while capturing some of the only memories we’ll ever have with Sarah and Michael.
The diagnosis for both babies was world-ending. We had no idea how to move forward. Even months after losing them, it felt like we were still trapped in that hospital room while everyone else expected life to return to normal.
We weren’t just grieving our children—we were grieving our identities and the entire future we had imagined.
It took me a long time to return to college, and when I did, I changed my degree from biochemistry to social work so I could make a difference for families like ours. Without losing Sarah and Michael, I never would have found what I now know is my true calling.
Their dad experienced his own journey through grief while walking beside me through mine. Together, we mourned the life we would never have and learned that grief can feel like climbing mountains.
Three years after losing Sarah and Michael, we welcomed our rainbow baby, a son. Becoming parents again brought back so many emotions I had pushed aside. We had to learn how to separate our trauma from our new parenthood. Every milestone he reaches reminds us of the ones we missed with the twins, while also filling our hearts with joy. He wasn’t supposed to experience all of our parenting firsts alone, but I can’t imagine our life without him.
Sarah and Michael showed incredible strength. We had been told they likely wouldn’t survive birth, yet they stayed with us for 30 precious hours. They fought with everything they had until they couldn’t fight anymore. They taught us how to love. They taught us what strength truly looks like. They gave us the resilience to face anything life puts before us.
We want people to know their names. We don’t want to be silent about what happened to them or to us. We want our son to know that his siblings mattered and that even though their lives were brief, they changed ours forever. We will keep sharing their story, saying their names, and hoping it makes a difference for another family.
The photographs from On Angels’ Wings mean having memories we otherwise wouldn’t have. I can still see every detail of my children’s faces. I can see their tiny hands and remember what they felt like in mine.
Through On Angels’ Wings, I’ve also met other loss parents and found a community where our children are spoken about without hesitation or stigma. Our children mattered. We get to say their names. We get to talk about them. That makes all the difference.
Life often moves on while it feels like everyone else wants to forget these important little people. Sometimes it even feels like family wants to erase that part of the journey. But On Angels’ Wings has given us a way to keep their memories alive while acknowledging both the pain and the love.
We’ve attended events and seen firsthand the incredible support surrounding this organization. We know another family—young, scared, and facing the unimaginable—will receive the same comfort we did, along with an entire community ready to walk beside them whenever they’re ready.
Most importantly, On Angels’ Wings has never given me a timeline for my grief. They’ve simply remained there while I continue figuring out what healing looks like.
OAW saved every bit of me.
They gave me physical reminders of my sweet children that I cannot imagine living without. Every time life feels too heavy, OAW is there with support, resources, and people who remind me I’m not alone.
They gave hope when it felt like there wasn’t any.
They saved our family when we felt completely lost. During the worst season of our lives, On Angels’ Wings became a light that showed us healing was possible—even if it didn’t happen quickly.
It has been over five years, and I’m only now beginning to truly process our loss. OAW has been just as present today as they were in those first heartbreaking hours.
They have been everything I never knew I needed.
