The sonographer’s cold gel on my stomach sent a shiver through me, a familiar feeling during my second pregnancy. As the grainy image flickered on the screen, I held my breath. It wasn’t the heartbeat that was my focus this time. My first pregnancy had been a whirlwind of hope, a desperate prayer for even the faintest sign of life. But now, eight weeks into this journey, I was praying for just one.
My husband and I had dreamt of starting a family after our wedding in 2004. Eighteen months later, reality hit hard when tests revealed my inability to conceive naturally. We were devastated but determined. Thanks to the generous support of my husband’s father, we underwent IVF, and in the summer of 2006, we were overjoyed to discover I was carrying twins.
The first trimester was a blissful blur, and by week 20, we were eagerly preparing to welcome our little family of four. We painted the nursery, squeezed in two cots, stocked up on nappies, and bought a double buggy. We even chose names: Alex and Josh. Then, at 26 weeks, my water broke. The suddenness of it, the terrifying prospect of a premature delivery, sent me reeling. My antenatal classes were mere days away, and I felt utterly unprepared for the rollercoaster of labor.
Two weeks later, our boys arrived three months ahead of schedule, their birth a whirlwind of activity. A team of midwives, obstetricians, nurses, and pediatricians crowded around me as I pushed, their focus on our heartbeats adding to the surreal intensity of the moment. It was a far cry from the magical birth I had envisioned. Briefly, I held each of my tiny babies before they were whisked away to the neonatal intensive care unit. They were fragile, their skin translucent, their combined weight barely five and a half pounds. Both boys were placed in incubators, relying on oxygen to breathe.
The following days were a blur of worry and hope. I held Alex, his tiny body so delicate. Josh, too, eventually graduated from the incubator. As we began to envision bringing our sons home, a devastating blow struck. Alex contracted meningitis, his condition deteriorating rapidly. A brain hemorrhage forced us to make the unbearable decision to remove him from intensive care and hold him as he took his last breath.
Grief consumed me, a crushing weight that made breathing feel impossible. Yet, we had to carry on. We returned to the neonatal unit to be with Josh, each milestone a bittersweet victory, each setback a terrifying reminder of what we had lost. Finally, in February 2007, Josh was strong enough to come home. We donated the second car seat, cot, and double buggy, but I couldn’t bear to take down the letters spelling out Alex’s name from the nursery door.
The next five months were a blur of grief and the overwhelming demands of early motherhood. I felt numb, unable to relate to parents who had experienced easy pregnancies and deliveries. Seeing twins was too painful, a constant reminder of what should have been. Then, unexpectedly, I discovered I was pregnant again. This time, I had conceived naturally, a joyous revelation that should have filled me with elation. Instead, I was consumed by terror. The thought of twins again, of history repeating itself, was unbearable.
So, there I was, at the ultrasound, holding my breath, searching for the flickering light that indicated a heartbeat. I saw it, then another… twins again. My world crumbled. I wanted to flee, my trousers still rolled down, the gel still smeared across my stomach. This couldn’t be happening.
The entire pregnancy was a struggle. I refused to prepare, unable to imagine leaving the hospital with two babies in my arms. This time, I held on until 38 weeks. Remarkably, the midwife who delivered Alex and Josh was on duty once again. I had a photo of Alex with me, and she pinned it to the wall, urging me to focus on his image, not the flurry of activity in the room. Two hours later, I delivered my second set of twins in fifteen months: Evie and George. Thankfully, they were healthy and able to come home immediately.
Life with three children under two was chaotic, but it was also beautiful. Having twins again forced me to confront my feelings of loss, to allow myself to start enjoying motherhood. There were moments when grief would rise to the surface, like a wave crashing over me. But gradually, I began to heal. I learned to accept what had happened.
Having more than one child doesn’t make losing one any easier. I will always grieve for Alex, my firstborn. He will always be a part of our family. We talk about him often, finding ways to remember him that don’t bring pain. The day he died, December 10th, has become the day we decorate our Christmas tree, transforming a day of sorrow into something hopeful.
Grief is personal, unique to each individual. I learned to listen to my body, to let myself cry, but also to laugh without guilt. Writing became a source of comfort. Eight years after Alex died, I published my first book, the beginning of a journey that led to six bestselling novels, many exploring the complexities of grief. This year, I finally wrote explicitly about my own loss, about the process of healing. It was cathartic, a journey I would encourage anyone struggling with grief to undertake through journaling or creative writing.
The conversations I’ve had with readers since writing my memoir have been deeply moving. We need to talk more openly about death and loss. Now, my surviving children are teenagers, and my life is full. Grief still exists, but it no longer consumes me. I am grateful to have reached this point. My heart goes out to those who are still navigating the raw, painful landscape of grief. You are not alone. We are here, standing beside you, in this club none of us wanted to join.
