We thought we were so lucky.
Our first pregnancy had been a long and challenging journey. We had tried for a year and a half to conceive, seeking fertility help along the way. It was hard, frustrating, and often felt like it would never happen. When we finally held our little miracle in our arms, the joy made every struggle worth it.
When we decided to try for a second child, we braced ourselves. We knew it could take time, maybe a year or two, to get pregnant again. But when the first month came and the test revealed a second line, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It wasn’t faint—it was dark, real, and undeniable. I was pregnant.
I ran upstairs to tell my husband, who was sitting on the floor playing with our two-year-old daughter. Tears streamed down my face as I opened the door. I couldn’t breathe or speak at first. He had no idea what was happening or that I’d even taken a test, so I needed to act fast before he thought something was wrong.
“Everything’s okay,” I gasped. “I’m pregnant!”
He looked confused, caught completely off guard. I think he said, “Okay?” as he tried to process my tears and excitement. Eventually, laughter and smiles took over, and we even had to explain the difference between happy tears and sad tears to our daughter, who tried to console me.
It felt like a dream. We were on cloud nine. We shared the news with the world as soon as we got confirmation. Our daughter, thrilled to become a big sister, couldn’t wait for the crib to go up. By the end of the first trimester, we set it up and began preparing for our growing family.
But just a few weeks later, everything changed.
At 15 weeks, we went for the first-trimester scan—the one that checks the nuchal fold and screens for Down Syndrome. The ultrasound looked perfect. The doctor said our baby appeared healthy. But when the blood work came back, it showed a higher-than-normal risk for Down Syndrome—a 1 in 77 chance.
The doctor assured us it was likely nothing, given the healthy ultrasound, but recommended further testing. We opted for a cell-free DNA test. I was excited—it would reveal the baby’s sex earlier than the 20-week anatomy scan, which meant a special reveal for our daughter.
I’ll never forget that phone call. Our daughter was playing nearby, my husband at work. The doctor said our baby did not have Down Syndrome—but then added something I wasn’t ready for. He mentioned terms I had never heard: “Trisomy 13,” “Patau Syndrome,” “incompatible with life.” My heart stopped. He explained more, but it was a blur.
We could either confirm the diagnosis with an amniocentesis or wait for ultrasound findings. I didn’t have words. Just one question came out before I hung up: “Do you know the sex of the baby?”
“Yes. It’s a girl.”
Her name was April Rey. I needed a name for her, to hold onto her even in uncertainty. Then the tears came—loud, uncontrollable. Our daughter ran to me, hugging me and saying, “It’s okay, Mama. It’s going to be okay.” I called my husband, trying to convey the news while holding back my sobs. He reassured me, but it wasn’t okay.
In the following weeks, we did the amniocentesis. The diagnosis was confirmed: full Trisomy 13. Every cell in April Rey’s tiny body was affected. Ultrasounds began to show the signs, and we realized she wouldn’t survive.
We couldn’t bear the thought of surgeries, of struggling to breathe, of a life filled with pain. Doctors explained that before 24 weeks, babies don’t feel pain, and she would likely pass peacefully during induction.
At 19.5 weeks, we made the hardest decision of our lives. We induced labor to spare her from suffering. When April Rey was born, she was alive. She had a faint smile on her face, and I held her tiny hand, feeling her squeeze mine as if to say everything was alright.
She lived for eleven precious minutes. We held her, read to her, whispered our hellos and goodbyes.
Every year on what would have been her birthday, we remember her. We bake a cake, blow out candles, read “Wherever You Are, My Love Will Find You” by Nancy Tillman, and honor her memory. We also raise funds for the Perinatal Palliative Care team at Johns Hopkins, who guided us through this heartbreaking journey with compassion and dignity.
April Rey is carried with us every day. Our daughter, Caroline, talks about her constantly, eager to show her everything she never got to experience. We will do it all, and we will always take April Rey with us in spirit.
Happy birthday, April Rey. We love you, we miss you, and we will never forget you
