My generous boy gave so much, who else could he save? By Tania Ranby, 46
Dear Liam,
As I sat on the hospital bed, the sonographer rubbed the wand over my tummy.
‘Twins,’ I uttered in disbelief, looking at the screen.
There you were, Liam, wiggling around inside my stomach next to your brother Luke.
I’d always wanted boys so I’d been excited, but sadly, as doctors examined more, there was news.
There was only one heartbeat — yours.
Luke wasn’t going to make it.
Doctors couldn’t work out exactly what was happening, but I felt some peace knowing that you were in there looking after him.
At the next scan, a surprised doctor said: ‘They’re both growing.’
Even before you were born, you’d wanted to help in any way you could — you were pumping blood from your heart into Luke’s body.
At seven months, you’d decided it was time we met and my waters broke.
I had a Caesarean and you entered the world with a small, sweet cry.
Doctors discovered you and Luke had twin arterial perfusion sequence, meaning you shared arteries and your brother was born with no heart as well as other missing organs and limbs.
As soon as the cord was cut, the blood supply you’d been giving him was gone.
You were rushed into intensive care and I prayed that you’d be OK.
Thankfully, a month later, you were allowed home.
It was only then that we held a funeral for Luke because I wanted you there to say goodbye.
The night before the funeral, I lay in bed, your bassinet one side of me and Luke’s coffin on the other.
‘You’ve taken such good care of your brother,’ I whispered.
It was the only night the three of us spent together.
After the funeral, the grief was overwhelming.
'I love you my boy'
Some days, I couldn’t even face the day. I turned to alcohol to cope.
I’d watch you babbling away, sometimes staring into the distance.
I had this feeling Luke was with us and it was him you were talking to.
‘I love you, my boy, I’m going to get better,’ I promised you.
A few years later, I had your sister Arnika who joined our tribe.
Compared to your sensitive and calm nature, she was a firecracker, always up to mischief.
You played so gently with her, showing her your trains and even letting her have cuddles with your favourite toy — a pink doll called Buddy.
Your love for Arnika was fierce, you were her little protector.
Me and Dad split up but we were both still there for you.
As you got older, you got stuck into different hobbies — skateboarding, football and even motorcross racing.
By 11, you’d discovered the electric guitar.
‘Listen to this one, Mum,’ you said, sitting on the edge of my bed at 7am.
‘That’s great, can I listen later,’ I’d say because I wasn’t as much of a morning person as you.
You grew out your hair and years later, you fell in love. It wasn’t meant to be and you took the break-up hard.
It pained me to watch but one day you told me: ‘I’m going to be OK, Mum.’
And you stuck to your word.
You picked yourself up, joined a band and started going to the gym.
‘Look at those muscles,’ I teased you.
Your smile was back and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Then one day, you called me at home.
The country was entering lockdown and it was all so confusing.
‘Are you scared of dying of Covid, Mum?’ you asked.
I reassured you I wasn’t.
‘I’m not scared of dying either,’ you replied. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you too,’ I said, as you hung up.
Two hours later, my phone trilled again.
There was an unknown number followed by a serious voice: ‘Is that Liam’s mum?’
My stomach dropped.
The stranger explained you’d collapsed at the gym and been found unresponsive.
Now, you were in hospital on life support.
An animalistic noise escaped my throat. My body shook and it didn’t stop as my sister drove me to you.
I had to take a Covid test before I could see you.
My stomach churned as I waited two hours for the results. I kept looking up at the hospital windows.
Thankfully, Arnika and your dad were with you already.
It was negative and when I was finally inside, a doctor pulled me into a side room.
‘You must prepare for the worst,’ he said.
I sat on a hard plastic chair, as he explained you had undiagnosed arteriovenous malformation. The blood vessels in your brain had never formed properly and you’d had a huge bleed.
'I'm not scared of dying'
The next day was crucial as doctors planned to perform tests to determine if you were brain-dead.
I held on to a small spark of hope.
You were my brave boy. You’d worked so hard to make yourself happy, you deserved a long and healthy life.
But the following day, at 12.08pm, doctors pronounced you brain-dead. I held your hand and cried.
Later, a doctor approached us and asked: ‘Do you know if Liam wanted to be an organ donor?’
I thought of Luke, how you’d helped him and I knew your heart had the power to pump for others.
‘Yes,’ we said.
It was what you would’ve wanted.
For the next few nights, I slept by your side, until it was time for your organs to be harvested.
We took the walk of honour and said goodbye. I stroked your long hair and kissed your cheek.
It was the last time I felt your heart beating in your chest, your body warm to the touch.
I sank into grief afterwards.
After the pain of losing your brother, I wasn’t sure if I could survive losing you too.
But following a small funeral, we went through your things and found a notepad.
We’d often seen you scribbling away in it, especially after the break-up.
Inside was a list, it read: What I must do for my happiness. Write music, trust the process of life, keep my heart in the light, play guitar, go to the gym, be grateful.
I let your words be my guide and took your recipe on how to be happy.
Doing what you did, it felt like you were with me.
As Covid restrictions eased, we were able to hold a proper funeral for you and reunite you with Luke.
I buried your ashes alongside him.
And in time, news of the wonderful things your organs had done arrived.
Your liver had saved the life of a three-year-old girl. Two more people had regained their sight from your eyes. Another person has your heart.
In total, you’ve saved five lives and helped six more.
I’m so proud of you and everything you achieved in your short life.
And I’m even more proud of the legacy you’ve left behind. Other families don’t have to grieve as we have, because of your desire to help.
We miss you every day. But I like the thought that part of you is still alive in the world. Your eyes are seeing all the things you didn’t get to and your heart will love again.
Love,
Mum x
• To find out more about AVM, visit ninds.nih.gov and search ‘AVM’