When I heard two heartbeats for the second time, I should’ve been happy, instead I was terrified. By Clare Mackintosh, 48
As I pointed to a space in the small room, my husband Rob shuffled the cot into position.
‘Now, put the other one there,’ I directed.
After being told we’d never be able to have children, Rob and I had been thrilled when our first round of IVF had been successful.
And discovering we were expecting twins, felt like being gifted an instant family.
With the babies due in three months’ time, I was in full nesting mode.
After sorting the nursery,
I stocked up on nappies, bought a double buggy and two car seats.
I even hung cute wooden letters on the nursery door – an A and a J.
We knew the twins were boys and had chosen the names Alex and Josh.
‘I think we’ll do Christmas at Mum’s this year,’ I said to Rob a few weeks later, imagining myself in front of a festive film with a box of chocs balanced on my bump.
But at a routine scan at 26 weeks, I watched the doctor’s brow furrow.
‘Is everything OK?’ I asked.
‘Your waters have broken,’ he said, and I felt panic surge in my chest.
I was admitted straightaway and given medication to try to slow down labour and build up the babies’ lungs.
But after two weeks in hospital, the babies were coming and I was rushed to theatre to deliver.
The room was crowded with people – a midwife each for the boys and one for me, plus doctors too.
And before I knew it, the boys had arrived. In the chaos, I heard a tiny cry but then the twins were rushed straight to the neonatal intensive care unit.
They were so tiny – Alex weighed 3lb while Josh was half a pound lighter.
'They're doing well'
The following day, I was able to give Alex a cuddle and the day after, Josh was placed in my arms too and it felt incredible to be their mum.
We spent every moment we could with them, holding their tiny hands and watching their chests rise and fall.
‘They’re doing well,’ nurses said.
But then, at three weeks old, Alex caught a hospital bug and quickly developed meningitis.
He was moved to a higher dependency unit and seeing him connected to tubes and wires filled me with panic.
But there was worse to come.
My poor baby boy then suffered a brain haemorrhage and was put on life support.
‘If he survives, he won’t be able to see, hear or speak,’ a doctor explained.
After weeks of having such little control, he now asked us what we wanted to do.
We talked it over in tears, then made the agonising decision to turn off the machines keeping our son alive.
Just two weeks before Christmas, I held Alex in my arms as he took his final breath.
The grief hit me immediately.
It felt so physical – I couldn’t breathe and my limbs were heavy.
When I visited Josh the next day, my chest tightened as I walked past Alex’s empty crib.
Then I reached in and touched Josh’s tiny fingers.
‘Hello, my boy,’ I said, gently.
He was the only thing keeping me going as we held a funeral for Alex, inviting all the friends and family he never got a chance to meet.
As the weeks rolled on, Christmas arrived. But all of my festive spirit had gone.
On the 25th, Rob and I went to see Josh. Hanging on his crib was a small, knitted stocking.
Seeing the soft knitted teddy bear and Christmas bauble inside it, tears welled.
‘That’s lovely,’ I said to Rob.
I was so grateful to the volunteers who brought a sparkle of joy to a very sad and very quiet Christmas.
A week later, New Year arrived, but with Josh still in intensive care, I didn’t want to celebrate.
As the clock stuck midnight, I thought of Alex and the year ahead we were now facing without him.
Thankfully, a month later, Josh was allowed home to North Wales.
Days before, Rob and I rushed around preparing
the house.
We removed one cot from the nursery, got rid of the extra car seat and replaced the double buggy too.
But I couldn’t bear to take Alex’s ‘A’ off the nursery door.
Bringing Josh home, I was terrified something would happen to him as well. He still had health issues and we were always at the hospital.
I checked on him constantly, standing by his cot as he slept.
As the months went on, Josh got stronger and we settled into life as our little family.
Then one day, I woke up with a headache and nausea.
I’d had a couple of drinks the night before, so I assumed it was a hangover. But four days later, I still felt awful.
Maybe I’m pregnant, a little voice niggled in my head.
I tried to ignore it. There was no way I could be.
But a few days later, I stood in the bathroom tapping my fingers against the sink as I waited for a pregnancy test to develop.
Flipping over the white stick, two dark lines appeared.
‘I’m pregnant,’ I told Rob.
Both of us were in complete shock.
Terrified I’d have twins and history would repeat itself, doctors agreed to give me an early scan at eight weeks.
‘It won’t be twins this time, that was because you had IVF,’ the sonographer said, swiping cold gel on my stomach.
But then there it was, the thud, thud, thud of two heartbeats.
In a panic, I tried to get off the bed, heading for the door.
‘I can’t go through it again,’ I said.
For the first few weeks, I was in denial.
I took care of myself and attended appointments but at home, I wouldn’t talk about the pregnancy.
No part of me believed
I would bring home two healthy and happy babies.
To make matters worse, the pregnancy was high risk and I was put on bed rest.
'It won't be twins'
However, the weeks kept passing and eventually, at 37 weeks and with a photo of Alex next to me, I delivered twins, George and Evie.
But the birth was difficult and afterwards, I was kept in hospital with the twins.
They were two weeks old when I was finally well enough to be discharged and looking into their cots, to my horror, I felt nothing.
I went through the motions – ferrying my three kids to classes and playdates.
‘You’re doing so well,’ friends told me.
But inside, I was crumbling and five months on, I was diagnosed with postnatal depression.
With help, I felt better and then one day, as I nursed George and Evie, I felt the rush of love I’d been waiting for.
As our first Christmas with three kids rolled around, I felt nothing but joy.
On the anniversary of Alex’s death, I decorated the Christmas tree with baubles carrying all four of our children’s names.
It became a tradition that we’ve carried on even now the kids are teenagers.
Every year we have our good-hearted arguments about who puts the star on top of the tree and it makes me feel so lucky to have my children.
Losing Alex was the worst thing to ever happen to our family, but slowly, I’ve learnt to cope with my grief.
I’ve written a book about living with grief, I hope it will help others experiencing loss to see that it does get easier and there is a life beyond grief.
● I Promise it Won’t Always Hurt Like This by Clare Mackintosh is available on Amazon.
