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Late into my third pregnancy I discovered I was expecting twins, a truly, exciting and anxious, time for our family. Daughters Karen, eleven years and Vikki seven, were over the moon because they wouldn’t have to share one sibling, they could have one each. It felt too much to hope that one could be a boy as an added bonus. I really expected to have four girls and that would have been a blessing too.

 

My husband came with me for the scan and the technicians didn’t know that twins weren’t confirmed so they chatted amongst themselves pointing out limbs etc. To my excitement I also heard the mention of a trunk. I contained myself as a true Brit until I was alone with my husband. I said how pleased I was at the possibility that one baby maybe a boy and it sounded as though there were definitely two, although there was a mention of a multiple birth that sounded really scary. My naivety and ignorance was about to expose itself, one baby maybe a boy?  My husband roared with laughter when I whispered with delight, the trunk referred to must be boy bits.

 

At 36 weeks I was induced and gave birth to TWO beautiful, healthy, boys, Ross & Paul. I had a huge amount of support from our extended families and because of this was able to really enjoy my family of four.

The boys looked alike, blonde, almost bald, (our daughters both had a mop of dark hair). The twins were not identical and daily they developed more and more individuality. Paul was very upright, he took longer to feed and we called him the lamb or Rev. Paul, whilst Ross was rounder, scoffed his food, leaned on Paul and growled like a bear. For 19 happy weeks and five days family life went on.

 

One special, Sunday morning early in February we awoke as our two daughters stood by our bed with a tray of tea and cards for our 12th wedding anniversary. I remarked that the boys weren’t old enough to make tea but they had remembered our special day and let us lie in bed. As the minutes ticked by and after 3-4 checks were made on the twins, Ross awoke, Paul stirred and lifted his hand but didn’t wake. Ross went downstairs for his breakfast. As I was about to go downstairs too, I checked again on Paul, this time he was blue around his mouth.

 

In that earth shattering moment our world came tumbling down. All the efforts of mouth to mouth, by my husband, followed by paramedics who got there somehow, and two doctors, grandparents, policemen, numb, quiet, children, one unsettled baby, one silent. Time stood still, nobody told me anything until I screamed out upstairs, how is my baby? A doctor stood on the landing, silently shaking his head, followed by my husband and two paramedics. They all went downstairs and left me to see him. I was shocked and horrified, who dared to hide Paul under the bedclothes in that huge, double bed. I pulled down the covers and lifted him close to my chest, his head fell to one side and I clung to him for our very last cuddle until he was taken from me. Two, young policemen asked for a carrycot to take him away in. I pleaded with them to look after him, to keep him warm. I can still recall their faces and expressions to this day, a look of helplessness as they walked out of the door on that bitter February morning.

 

I really can’t remember being really sad or devastated before, in my life, other than the sadness at the inevitable death of my grandparents. Life had not touched me in this way before. To my amazement, I survived. I guess that’s all I could do in the early days. I would semi wake in the morning with a deep, deep, gnawing sensation in the very pit of my stomach. I would pray that I was having a nightmare and when I fully awoke all would be well. It wasn’t.

Gradually, there were moments in a day when I laughed again and eventually stopped feeling guilty when I could laugh or eat without choking. I feared at times, that if I started to cry, I would never stop. I was changed forever.

 

A few years passed and I heard about the Foundation for the Study of Infant Deaths ( F.S.I.D ) on the local radio. I met other bereaved mothers and was helped immensely by the sharing. Five years after Paul died I felt ready for a challenge. I organised a big event for several friends and family to fundraise for F.S.I.D. I had never done anything like this in my life before, not a raffle or a coffee morning. My very first flight in an aircraft and I decided I would leap from the wing of this perfectly adequate aircraft in to thin air. Amongst those of us that leapt from this Cessna were my 16 yr old daughter, two brothers and many friends. I forgot to mention the parachutes.

 

On the 12th anniversary of Paul’s death and my 24th wedding anniversary I returned home from hospital after 24hrs with another wonderful daughter, Abigail.

 

Over the years I have had a lot of fun, supported by friends, family, neighbours, and local businesses. Our FUN raising has been therapeutic and as a bonus we have raised much needed funds to help towards reducing infant deaths by 70 per cent. To commemorate and celebrate 21 years since the birth of my twin son’s, Ross and I were amongst the first group to take up F.S.I.D challenges and trek across the Jordan desert in 1999 starting out on Mothers Day. After Abby’s birth my life experiences led me to university to train as a counsellor. They say life begins at forty don’t they. I have worked ever since, alongside other bereaved parents and any individuals experiencing loss in one form or another. I have also had the privilege of facilitating some FSID befriender preparation days in the South West.

 

My husband and I are the proud grandparents to six fabulous grandsons and two gorgeous granddaughters. HOPING one day to have even more.

 

Pauline James.