We decided to keep Monday 21^st May, all about Ariya.  It’s also the date of our Indian Wedding Anniversary and so her special day will be forever entwined with ours.  It was a packed day of back and forth from the SCBU – to express milk for Adhiya, and spending every other minute with Ariya.

In the morning, the local Hindu priest came and said a blessing for Ariya and to perform a small naming ceremony for her.  We aren’t religious, nor are we Hindu.  We are technically Jain.  Jainism is a religion very similar to Buddhism.  Its main beliefs are to treat living souls with equal respect, non-violence, reincarnation and achieving liberation by eliminating karma.  Culturally however I have grown up putting into practice some Hindu traditions as well.  The baby naming ceremony normally takes place on the 6th day after birth and is called a ‘Chatthi’.  But Ariya wouldn’t be coming home, nor would she be with us on her 6th day after birth.  We put tradition aside and did what was right for us as a family.  

We had a whole host of potential names that we liked, and had them ready in different combinations, depending on if we had boys or girls.  We had spent the first couple of days after their birth trying to decide who would get which name.  But when it came down to it, the decision was simple.  Ariya means noble one or close to God.  Adhiya means Goddess of strength.  We believe that Ariya was given a noble role of ensuring that Adhiya, a Goddess, was brought into this world safely.  And so, they were Adhiya and Ariya.

We didn’t name our third baby for quite some time.  It almost felt like we didn’t have the right to name her – we (begrudgingly) chose to end her life, and we never met her.  I often feel that other people must think she was less valued, less loved … ‘just a bunch of cells’.  But that couldn’t be further from the truth.  She would have had Ariya’s beautiful face, her rosy cheeks, blonde matted hair and caused so much mischief with her two sisters.   Adhira – merging Adhiya and Ariya – suited her perfectly.  Her name means lightning and strength – quite fitting really.

To this day, I feel quite protective of her name and her soul.  I don’t share her with everyone … she’s like a precious jewel that lives deep in my soul, surrounded by lots of love, but also a lot of guilt.

Later that morning, we managed to get Adhiya off her monitoring for an hour or so, and took her down to spend some time with her sister.  The Remember My Baby (RMB) photographer, Sally Masson, came and took some photos of us a family.  Sally made us feel so at ease, we felt ‘normal’ and it actually felt nice to forget the ‘abnormality’ of the whole situation.  We laid Adhiya and Ariya on the bed together, and it was magical.  Adhiya – who had been so sleepy pretty much since birth – was alert and awake.  Not only this, but she was looking directly at her beautiful sister and almost pawing at her with affection. 

The RMB photos mean the world to us, and we enjoy showing them to anyone that gives us the chance to.  Yes, they make us sad, but more than that, they make us proud.  These photos let us show the whole world that even in death, Ariya was just like any other baby – innocent, beautiful and serene.

That evening we introduced Ariya to our nearest and dearest.  I put on my brave face and smiled, whilst showing off our baby.  If I’d have had the strength I would have called the whole world to see her; to see our miracle.  When I look back now, I think my family must have thought I’d lost my mind – why was she smiling?  Why wasn’t she a sobbing mess?  I was numb, running on adrenaline and in automatic  pilot, but also I was desperate for no-one else to be upset.

Ricky and I had decided that the night we said ‘Goodbye’ to Ariya, would be the night we went home.  Till this point, she had slept next to us in our room, in her CuddleCot.

But when it came to it, I didn’t know how to say ‘Goodbye’.  My parents sang to her, Ricky said a beautiful Goodbye, and I said nothing.  I couldn’t find the words that meant or said enough.  At the time, this made me so angry.  I was so angry that everyone else had something to say, but I, Ariya’s mother – who had carried them for so long – had nothing.

Ariya, I hope you can forgive me for not being able to put my feelings into words.  Adhira, I hope you can forgive us too.  Please know that I, we, and many more love you both.

I’d been discharged from hospital and we had just over a week until the planned induction, to do important things – last minute scans and appointments, meeting our health visitor, having my work appraisal, eating ANYthing and EVERYthing to try and fatten the babies up, celebrating passing our first GP exam, getting my eyebrows threaded, watching the IPL … the list was endless.

Our last fetal medicine appointment dealt a final blow.  It became clearer that Baby 2 had some bowel outside the body, BUT, the amount of amniotic fluid was a bit better.  We were told that Baby 2, would potentially need an operation after birth at Great Ormond Street, but there was no way of knowing until the babies arrived and assessed more closely.

There were so many mixed emotions after that scan.  I felt numb.  Numb, as I’d become used to expecting more disappointment and heartbreak, and this was just yet another to add to the list.  But there was a glimmer of hope.  The fact that the amniotic fluid around Baby 2 was better, and that there was mention of an operation – this all gave us hope and we clung onto this.  I remember ringing Ricky, who was at work on call that day, and feeling like a failure.  I’d failed to keep our babies safe.  Failed to bring them all into this world healthy.  Oh, and the guilt.  That’s one that just keeps on giving.

Despite the disappointment of the scan findings, we ploughed on with our week.  Ricky, working long days on labour ward and looking forward to a well deserved rest on the Friday.  Myself, running a few errands but also doing a lot of resting, watching cricket and eating.

We made great plans for Friday 18th May 2018.

Ricky had been on call all week, whilst commuting from my parents (our boiler was broken…) and so he needed a bit of a lie in.  We had planned on a leisurely wake up at 7 am (just to clarify… this is NOT a lie in, by my terms) and then we would pop in to the Day Assessment Unit for my blood test – checking I had no signs of infection as I was leaking amniotic fluid.  The rest of the day’s plans involved getting my eyebrows threaded and possibly a manicure.  The babies were going to be here soon and I fully intended on looking as glam as possible for those post-birth photos.  Step aside Kate Middleton … there was going to be a new hot momma in town.  What a fool I was.

My Mum had made us packed lunches for our day out together, including baguette sandwiches … stuffed to the brim with cheese, lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes and onions.  Little did we know that these sandwiches would become a fond memory of that day.

Instead, I woke at 0515, with a slight pain in my gigantic 34 week belly.  A bit odd, I thought, but I tried to ignore it and get to sleep … after all, we were having a lie in.  The pain went away.  Then it came back.  And then it went away again.  You get the jist.  I remember wondering “Is this what labour feels like?  … It really doesn’t feel that bad?? … It can’t be, I’m not in that much pain”.  And so I ignored it.

Or at least I tried to, this silly crampy type pain just kept coming and going.  I remember reaching over for my phone, so I could time how often the pains were coming.  It did seem to be a bit odd that they were coming every 7 minutes.  Hmm.

“Ricky?”  I remember gently shaking him awake and telling him about the pains.

Poor guy, he’d got home from work the day before and desperately needed sleep.  But Ricky being Ricky, was calm, patient and pragmatic as always “How bad are they?  Do you think we should call the hospital and just check what to do?”

I honestly didn’t believe these were contractions, and so, I convinced him that this could wait till our 9am blood test appointment, and we could mention it to someone then.  As soon as I’d persuaded him to go back to sleep, something changed.  The cramping seemed more intense (as though someone was telling me ‘DON’T BE A FOOL, YOU NEED TO DO SOMETHING’.  Now, bang on every 6 minutes.  Suddenly that cloud of naivety that was hanging over my head, was blown away, and I realised that these pains were contractions.

“Ricky, the pains are getting worse and they’re every 6 minutes.  I think you need to ring the hospital to ask what to do, and wake Mum and Dad”.

And like that, he was up and in shit-my-wife-is-in-labour mode.

Weirdly, I was calm.  I brushed my teeth whilst breathing through contractions, and went to the loo.  There was mucousy blood – and that’s when I knew we had to go to hospital as soon as possible.  I was in labour.  I WAS IN LABOUR.  It was happening, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Despite all this, there was an air of calmness.  I showered, put on some concealer and my summeriest maternity dress, and we headed to the hospital.  Sitting in the car, I was focused on the clock and now the contractions were every 5 minutes.  I was desperately just trying to focus on breathing through them, but I couldn’t help but notice my Dad was driving the car as though he was taking us on a comfortable, sedate Sunday drive down country lanes.  Not only this, but he was cracking ‘Dad’ jokes at the same time!

“Can you stop cracking jokes, put your foot down and drive faster?!”  I finally snapped.  I think I held my tongue for all of 5 minutes.

We reached triage, and I was concentrating on breathing through contractions.  “Twins?!  That will be our third set tonight!”  said the receiving midwife… another quiet night on labour ward then.  I was examined and told I was already 6 cm dilated – yay!!  My only concern at this point, was to get the midwives to check that there were two neonatal beds available for the babies, which thankfully there were.

I was whizzed over to labour ward, had a cannula put in, and an epidural (there was a high risk of conversion to C-section).  Then, things calmed down.  My Mum joined us and we spent the majority of the day playing games to the background hum of the babies’ heartbeats on the CTG. 

There were intermittent reviews by Obstetricians, Midwives, Neonatologists – who were all lovely and put us all at ease.  The enormity of what was happening, and what was going to happen, lingered in the air but wasn’t consuming us.  I’ll even go so far as to say that we enjoyed ourselves.  Some more than others… Ricky devoured both our baguette sandwiches, fully capitalising on me being Nil By Mouth. 

Things kept progressing well … 8cm, then 9cm, then fully dilated with just an anterior lip present.  My epidural was working well (when I remembered to ask for it to be topped up), and the only thing bothering me was my husband’s breath – the onions in those sandwiches were coming back to haunt us.  I kindly informed Ricky of this through gritted teeth, when I could take it no more!!  An urgent request for mints STAT was sent to my sister and Dad who were on their way from work!!  In my defence, I was very calm throughout labour, and this was my one outburst.  Aside from me snapping at Dad in the car…

And then, around 7 pm, it was pushing time.  I couldn’t feel my contractions properly as my epidural had been topped up, and so I was looking over at the CTG to figure out when to push!  The room slowly started filling up with midwives, obstetricians and neonatologists – we stopped counting when there were 20 in the room!!  After an hour or so, there was still no sign of any babies.  Baby 1’s head kept coming down and then going back up again – apparently my insides were just too appealing and they wanted to stay inside.  My consultant (who had come back in from home, even when he wasn’t on call), was present and a wonderfully calming presence in the room.  After about 1 hour 20 mins of pushing, Baby 1’s head was just not coming down far enough.  I was going to need help.  I had an episiotomy (something which I dreaded, and still makes me feel nauseated thinking about) and then some small forceps were applied to Baby 1’s head.

At precisely 20.26, on the next push, Baby 1 was here!!  Tiny, red, and CRYING.  She was CRYING.  She was laid on me, and I couldn’t believe it,  Baby 1 was a SHE (We later named her Adhiya).  Before I knew it, Adhiya was whisked away to the Neonates team who were waiting to assess her.

The CTG and ultrasound was placed straight on me, to confirm Baby 2’s position and heart rate.  Baby 2 was still lying oblique (diagonal across my belly) and so, my consultant attempted ECV to turn baby to a more favourable position.   The only way I can describe this is a forceful, somewhat uncomfortable, eye-watering massage.  And that’s putting it politely.  Baby 2 wouldn’t be moved to head down, and so the Obstetricians were going to attempt a breech delivery.  The CTG was placed back on me, to monitor baby’s heart rate.

“Heart rate has dropped, we need to get baby out now” – was all I remember hearing amongst all the panic.

And then, I felt someone’s hand inside me.  Inside my womb, grappling around for Baby 2’s legs.  This was without doubt, the most painful, horrific moment of it all.  I can’t even describe it in words, but at the time, my blood-curling scream did a good enough job.  And then at 20:37  my beautiful Baby 2 was pulled out of me.  She was laid on me.  Another SHE!  Tiny, purpley, but perfect. Our beautiful Ariya.

She didn’t cry.  She was whisked away to the second Neonatal team, who assessed her.  I tried looking over, but there was too much commotion, too many people in the room.  I saw the Neonatal Consultant call Ricky over.

I can’t even remember what was happening to me during this time.  There were injections jabbed in me, and I assume they were focused on delivering the placenta(s)?

The Neonatal Consultant came over to me.  Ricky was crying.  Ariya was alive, but her lungs were weak and hadn’t developed properly.  Part of her bowel was in her umbilical cord (exomphalos) and her bladder was on the outside of her body.  It was unlikely she’d survive the next few hours – even if taken to NICU.  We knew we didn’t want her prodded and poked with needles and tubes, surrounded by strangers, if her life was to be short.  We wanted her with us, her Mummy and Daddy.

Ariya was laid on me, wrapped in a towel, one of our beautiful baby girls.  Alive, but fading. Her eyes were closed, and her chest was slowly moving, but despite all this she moved her head and nuzzled into my neck.  Even though she was fading, she knew I was her Mummy.

I suddenly started to feel very ill.  Even though I was lying down, I felt faint, sick and it was as though I kept going into darkness.  I passed Ariya over to Ricky, and tried to tell someone how I was feeling.  But there was too much commotion.  I wasn’t heard.

My blood pressure was in its boots, and my heart rate racing.  The team realised I’d lost 2.5L of blood and alarms went off in the unit.  Cannulas were attempted and failed.  Fluids were pumped in, and I was stitched up to prevent any more blood loss.  Slowly, I started to feel less dizzy.

As calm was restored, Ariya was handed back to me.   We spent some precious time with her.  She met her Nana (maternal grand-dad), Nani (maternal grand-mother) and Masi (Mum’s sister).  Ariya died just over an hour after birth, in our arms.

And that is Adhiya and Ariya’s birth story.  Both, the best and worst day of our lives, but still I would give anything to go back to that day.

Honestly – I didn’t truly believe what that Consultant had told us.  When we had thought so hard about what decision to make regarding the pregnancy, this wasn’t one of the options we had considered.  We didn’t even think that this was a possibility.  It felt like this pregnancy was just not meant to be and the big guy in the sky, was playing some sick joke on us.

The Consultant had mentioned that the procedure to reduce the pregnancy may have caused damage to our remaining identical twin’s sac, but in some cases, fluid could re-accumulate around the baby if the sac healed.  That was what I held on to – that there was a chance our baby would be fine.  Doctors don’t know everything, so I was sure that the sac would heal and that there would be more fluid next time.  Dr Google became my hated friend … in desperation I searched for pregnancies or babies that had survived anhydramnios (no fluid).  There were a few cases in the US where women were admitted and given lots of IV fluids and this helped, however I knew that this wasn’t protocol here.  I started drinking more water, not huge amounts, but enough to make myself believe it could be making a difference.  Funny how desperation can make you go from being a ‘guideline follower’ to thinking ‘eff it, I’m just going to try anything in case it works’.

Christmas and New Year came and went, and we spent that time with the handful of people that knew our sickening conundrum.  Having hidden ourselves away, we decided that it was time to tell people we were pregnant.  But what to tell people … we’re having twins?  No, that just felt wrong.  We wanted all three of our babies to be known, to be remembered, to be acknowledged.  ‘Just say there are complications’  – No, that certainly wasn’t the answer.  We needed people to be kind, but to know our pain, and to know that there had been three beautiful souls growing in me.

We settled on ‘We fell pregnant with triplets but lost one baby at 13 weeks, and now have two babies.  One baby is very unwell and we’re not sure what’s going to happen. ‘.  I was worried about telling people about our decision to reduce the pregnancy and thus having a termination for medical reasons.  What would people think?  Would they judge us?  Would people think we’re murderers?  Ricky and I, are Jain (although neither of us are particularly religious) and we are supposed to do no harm to any living souls – what would our religion have to say about this!?  What would our family and community say?  It has only been in the last few months that I haven’t felt ashamed to talk about this.  To face up to that decision we made.  I’m sure there will be people that disagree or judge us, but to those people, until you have stood in our shoes, you cannot know what decision you would make.

We told our closest friends, and our parents told our families, but made it clear to all that we didn’t want lots of questions.  There was no social media announcement.  No mass flurry of “Congratulations!!”.  There was no mass flurry of anything really … and yes I appreciate we didn’t want questions, but we did want comfort.

The friends that we told, were there for us in such a way, that it will never be forgotten.  They understood that sometimes we would want to talk, sometimes we would want to be distracted.  Yes, sometimes we might cry, or even bawl – but that was OK.  It doesn’t make you weak, or less of a man or woman to show your emotions.  One thing became apparent though (during the pregnancy and afterwards),  in our culture, people don’t talk about “awkward” or “emotionally painful” topics – and baby loss was one of them.  For us, this has been one of the most upsetting things to deal with.

I won’t bore you with all the details of the rest of the pregnancy.  There were more scans; more complications – Baby 1 is fine, Baby 2 – where is it’s bladder?  Is there enough fluid? (this did improve marginally); more in depth discussions with Obstetrics and delivery planning with the Neonatal team.  Lots more tears, lots of sobbing in that ruddy room in Fetal Medicine where you get ushered to after a sh**y scan result.

When I think back, there was a point however, where I actually began to enjoy my pregnancy.  It may have taken 31 weeks, but I felt happiness.  Yes, there was so much uncertainty.  Yes, there were complications.  But, I was blooming… I loved how I looked – I never once minded being big and rounded.  I loved waddling around (apparently this was how I walked!!)

I could always tell which baby was kicking and I felt so connected and in love with them.  I knew them.  Especially Baby 2… he/she was a kick-er, and an elbow-er, always sticking his or her botty up and out, to let me know that he/she was defying the odds and going to prove those silly Doctors wrong.

Even the weather changed and the sun started to shine.  Mum and I went to an NHS antenatal class, and although I didn’t divulge my complications, I soaked up the enjoyment of everyone’s awe at me carrying twins. 

Ricky and I, went to North Norfolk – far enough to escape reality, close enough for Ricky to be able to race back to Luton & Dunstable Hospital if needs be.  That week away was one of my favourite times ever.  We were blissfully happy – no hospital appointments, just us and our babies, oh and the SUN (it was around the Early May Bank Holiday 2018, and it was crazzzzzy hot).  For me, that was when I truly felt some peace.  Tired, but happy and at peace.

I was admitted to hospital  when we got back.  Turns out that stress incontinence I’d been having for 3 weeks, was actually my waters leaking… Imagine how much of an idiot I’d felt like.  There’s me, sunning myself in Norfolk, changing a few pads a day, thinking the babies were making me wee myself.  Honestly, I despair at myself sometimes.  Thankfully, neither they or me, had signs of infection and so after a few days of delightful hospital food (this is not sarcasm, I actually thoroughly enjoyed my mac n cheese meals), I was discharged home with a plan for induction at 34 weeks.

Things just got serious.

The babies are coming…

And thus began the darkest period of my life.  When I recall these memories, they are quite literally shrouded in darkness, almost with a black tinge.  Isn’t it odd how the brain processes things over time?

I was signed off sick – but I felt like a fraud.  My body wasn’t failing me and my brain worked, so why was I being signed off?!  I felt like I was letting patients down… my supervisor… my family.  It was rightly pointed out to me, that I needed time to think.  To REALLY think.  What would be the ‘right’ thing for us to do?  I was due to start a rotation in Neonates (working with premature babies), and the thought of working in that environment coupled with the pregnancy complications we were facing, terrified me.

But being off work didn’t agree with me either.  I felt alone and broken.  When Ricky would leave for work, I would still be in bed.  Most days, I would only get up in the early afternoon – and honestly, that was more to quickly shower, dress and to quickly do something so I had something to show for my day before Ricky got home from work.  I spent a fair amount of time on Google, trying to find out our chances of a healthy triplet pregnancy, searching for other triplet mums-to-be (see, they can do it! So can I!).  Once Ricky was home, we would eat, watch some mindless TV and go to bed.

Although we didn’t sleep.  The weight of everything seemed to hit me most when I lay down in bed.  I used to go over and over it with Ricky.  We would talk about our three babies until the early hours of the morning but it would always lead to despair and tears.  We just couldn’t see what path we would chose/be forced to take.  Every night was the same.  Me crying endlessly, Ricky trying to hold us together.   He always put(s) me first despite being in turmoil himself.

We had shut ourselves away from everyone.  I was clearly showing a baby bump despite being in my first trimester.  People noticing the bump and then us having to face questions afterwards was not an option.  Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to shout from the rooftops about the magic that was happening inside me.  I wanted everyone to know that I had THREE BABIES inside me.  But we had no answers and there were too many unknowns.  For me in particular, I was worried about people judging us should we decide to reduce the pregnancy.  But by shutting ourselves away, we were alone and suffocated in darkness.

We asked to be referred to Kings Hospital for a second opinion.  We so desperately wanted someone to reassure us that they had the expertise to keep our babies safe.  That it would all be ok.  At the very least, I needed someone to tell me what to do.  Healthcare professionals today, are taught to be patient-centred (empowering the patient with information so they can guide management), but I needed the opposite of this.  I needed someone to look at me and think “What if this was my daughter? My wife?  My sister? What would I advise them?!”.

We spent a whole day at King’s, being scanned by different people (getting more and more senior) and each time they found more complications.  Our identical twins were showing signs of twin to twin transfusion already – not good.  One twin had an umbilical cord cyst – which was rare and its significance was unknown at this stage.  Ultimately, it was explained to us that with the make up of the pregnancy and the complications found, it was likely I’d miscarry our babies if I continued with three.

Taking everything into consideration and after much deliberation, we were advised to reduce the pregnancy.  I hate that word “reduce” – so cold and clinical.  Granted, it’s probably slightly kinder than some of the other words that can be used.  We were offered Intrafetal Laser, a fairly novel technique which would give us a chance of continuing the pregnancy with twins each with their own placenta.  This meant that the laser would be performed on one of our monochorionic twins (identical twins sharing a placenta), but was also a big risk to the remaining identical twin.  In the subsequent two weeks after the procedure there was a 50% risk of the remaining identical twin miscarrying.  (I’m not sure if this all makes sense… apologies if it doesn’t)

We had to make some sort of decision.  The longer we waited, the higher the possibility I would miscarry all our babies.  We wanted to save as many babies as possible.  If there was a chance we could take home two babies as opposed to losing all three, then we were going to take that option.

It was done that same day.  Even thinking back to it now, makes me feel cold and sick inside.  That room was so clinical.  So cold.  We almost felt like we were in lab or some sort of Sci-Fi film (not helped by the fact we were watched by Medical Students through a one way glass.  Without our consent, I might add).

In a way, I felt some relief.  Relief that someone had guided us down what was thought to be the safest path for our family.  But we both also felt numb.  Numb because we’d chosen to start a family, but despite this we’d essentially had a termination for medical reasons.

I broke my waters that night.  The doctors had told me that this would be expected.  That’s when it hit us.  That gush of fluid, was the realisation that we’d lost one of our beloved triplets and it was all our fault.  Our top bunk bed was now empty.

We waited with bated breath and counted down the days until our next scan.  Neither of us are particularly religious, but we started praying every night for all our babies… even Ricky!  If I’d fallen asleep, he would say the prayers for both of us.  I swear time slowed down and that week went ridiculously slowly.  Nothing else mattered apart from the results of that next scan.  All our hopes were hanging on that – that there would be two heartbeats.  No more complications, just two babies with heartbeats.  We could go to twins clinic and be done with all the negativity.  We could look to the future.

The day came.  I lay there holding my breath as the consultant scanned me.  Ricky was by my side, as always.  I could see the scan in front of me on the second screen – I could definitely see one baby clearly and moving, but the other looked different.  I couldn’t figure out why.  My brain was  going into overdrive in the silence.

The consultant asked me if I’d broken my waters, and I explained what happened the evening of the procedure.  He explained that both my babies were alive, but that our remaining identical twin had very little fluid around them and that this was unlikely to re-accumulate.  It was likely that I would go on to deliver both babies, but that our remaining identical twin would pass away after birth due to poor lung development.  He was so matter of fact about it.

Just when we thought we couldn’t break anymore, we broke again.

“So you mean, that’s one baby but viewed from three different angles?”

That was in response to the ultrasonographer showing me three sonograms one after another and telling me “There’s one baby … there’s another baby … and there’s another baby”.  Gosh, to this day my response to her makes me doubt whether my medical credentials are correct.  Before she showed us all three babies on one screen together, I just couldn’t fathom that we had managed to magic up triplets!

To think that just five minutes ago, I was laying on that couch, convinced that I had miscarried our baby, almost waiting with bated breath, trying to read the silence whilst the ultrasonographer was looking at the screen in different angles, desperately wanting her to just say there was a heartbeat so I could stop my brain from assuming the worst and so I could take a breath and just breathe…

The rest of the appointment was a blur.  I was in such a daze I didn’t even think to ask how many placentas and amniotic sacs there were (see why I doubt that medical degree?!).

That day was bliss.  It was as though we were floating, no… soaring, in a wonderful bubble and nothing could touch us.  In my mind, those three babies were girls.  I could see our three girls already… sitting on our sofa, with messy curly hair, in gorgeous onesies, propped up with cushions around them.  Ricky was already looking into how to get three isofix seats into a car, always Mr Practical!  Mum and Dad were elated that they wouldn’t be quibbling over who holds the baby (typical!)!!  At no point that day did we feel that this wouldn’t be possible.

That bubble we were soaring in, burst.  Abruptly.  It was pointed out to us that carrying triplets came with a number of risks – to our babies and me.  Reality hit and the thought that we may have to reduce the pregnancy made me feel sick inside.

This was confirmed at a Fetal Medicine appointment.  We had DCTA (dichorionic triamniotic) triplets… which means – 3 babies, 2 placentas, 3 sacs.  Two of our babies were sharing a placenta (so would be identical twins), and one baby had their own placenta.  We were told that the make up of the pregnancy was high risk and that it was likely I would either miscarry or have an extremely premature delivery.   It was advised that we should consider reducing the pregnancy to either twins or a single baby, for their health and for mine.  We were completely broken – how could anyone expect us to choose which baby/babies to “save”.  I know to some people a fetus is just a collection of cells, but to us they were babies.  Every time they scanned me, we saw our babies (T1, T2 and T3 as they were fondly referred to), on top of one another, moving around, nudging one another, almost as though they were in bunk beds.  They even looked like babies … they had tiny little arms, and legs.  I wanted them all, and I was going to fight to try and keep them all.  

For us, starting a family was a no-brainer.  Babies and children fascinate me!   At most family get-togethers, I can be found entertaining the kiddies in the corner.  I love the fact that their brains are like sponges – absorbing everything you tell them, so innocent (mostly) and great fun.  (And lots of hard work, I should probably add).  Reflecting on this now, it’s probably because they allow me to embrace my inner child!

We found out I was pregnant just before we flew to India for one of our dear friends incredible wedding.  The whole holiday was spent flying high on cloud 9.  It’s funny, as soon as you see those two pink lines, you start seeing everything that ‘could’ be.  I was only 4 or 5 weeks pregnant, but I was already obsessed by those websites/apps that tell you the size of your baby and the corresponding seed/fruit/vegetable.  I would forward through the weeks in excitement, imagining that little fruit inside me, growing day by day (anyone know what an Endive is?!  Apparently that’s for week 21…).  We spent days in bliss, thinking up baby names and living the wonderful naive-first-time-pregnant dream.  Isn’t it odd that despite both being Doctors, at no point, did either one of us think that our dream wouldn’t become a reality?  We knew the “1 in 4” stats, but that wasn’t going to be us.  That happens to other people, not us.

Our naive outlook was brought to an abrupt halt when I had some bleeding around 9 weeks.  I remember being at my parents, being super nauseous but being pampered and eating Masala Dosa (thanks Mummy <3 ).  I felt sick at the thought of the possibility that I might be losing my baby, and felt so angry at myself that I’d let my brain get so carried away with all the excitement.  How could I, of all people, have gotten excited before 12 weeks?!  I felt like I was failing already.  My sister looked so upset and terrified,  that I pretended to be calm and logical by reassuring everyone that we knew a miscarriage was a possibility.  But inside, I was petrified.

It was arranged that I’d be seen in the Early Pregnancy Unit the next day for a scan.  The wait seemed to be forever and by this point, I had convinced myself that our baby would have no heartbeat on the scan.  I was wrong.  There was a heartbeat, in fact there were three heartbeats.  Triplets.

I don’t think I will ever be able to describe the shock and elation we felt.  We both couldn’t believe it.  Poor Ricky’s initial reaction:  “But I only have two hands?!!?!  How will I hold them all??”.  My brain immediately went to the practicalities – we would need a bigger car (great… now Ricky will get his ruddy Estate), bigger house, WHERE ARE WE GOING TO PUT THEM ALL!? How will I hold them all?!  But really, nothing mattered, because we were having three babies.