FIVE TIMES the love
I couldn’t fall pregnant. Surely she couldn’t be counting babies in there?
The grainy image of my womb popped up on the screen. “I can see one heartbeat,” the sonographer said, “and two.”
My heart leapt to my throat and I looked at my husband, Skyler, 34. He clutched my hand.
e sonographer wasn’t done yet.
“And three,” she said. “And four… and ve!”
Surely she couldn’t be counting babies in there? But she was.
“Five,” I repeated slowly. “You sure?”
She nodded and another doctor came in and con rmed it.
“You’re pregnant with quintuplets,” she said.
“Are they all… alive?” I asked. My brain couldn’t quite compute what I was hearing.
“ey are,” she said, grinning. “Look, you can see each little heartbeat icking on the screen.” Skyler and I already had two sons, Shayden, 12, and Landon, seven.
I’d had polycystic ovary syndrome and for ve years had tried to have a third baby naturally but it hadn’t worked.
I’d taken a drug to help my body produce more eggs and within two months of trying, I was pregnant. Now, at the six-week scan, I’d found out my body had produced not just one egg, but ve, which had all been fertilised.
“e chances of falling pregnant naturally with quintuplets is one in 55 million,” the doctor said. I cried the whole of the next day, but then I went out with a friend, Lynne. “Just embrace it,” she said. “And live in gratitude.” “You’re right,” I replied. After that,
I got excited. At the time, Skyler worked as an appraiser, and I ran a successful baking business from home.
at afternoon, we decided to tell our boys.
“How many babies do you think are in my belly?” I asked them, as I lmed our conversation on my phone.
“ree?” Shayden guessed.
“No, two,” giggled Landon.
“You’re both right,” I said. “ere are ve.”
eir mouths fell open. We decided to document our journey online and started up a Facebook and Instagram page, plus a YouTube channel called Five Two Love.
People from around the world sent messages of love and hope which gave me strength.
ankfully, each foetus was a good size.
My body had produced five eggs
I’d had hyperemesis gravidarum – severe nausea and vomiting – with my rst two pregnancies, so I was expecting much worse, but bizarrely I hardly had any morning sickness at all.
I did grow though! By the time I was 16 weeks pregnant, I looked nine months gone.
When one of the babies moved, they all did.
At 21 weeks, my waters broke. Terri ed, I drove to the hospital where it was discovered that one of the amniotic sacs around one of the babies had broken, and all the uid had disappeared.
I was told it was likely that all the babies would die.
I was distraught.
“What am I going to do?” I asked, panicked.
“Just take one day at a time,” a specialist said.
I stayed in hospital and a week later, the most amazing thing happened. e membrane healed itself and the amniotic sac started re lling with uid. It astounded the doctors.
After that, I was put on bed rest in hospital until my contractions started at 29 weeks.
“It’s happening,” I said to Skyler.
“You’ve got this,” he replied.
I was wheeled to theatre and put to sleep.
What felt like moments later, I was woken up in the recovery room.
“Your babies are all here, and they’re all perfect,” a nurse said.
I burst into tears. I couldn’t believe it.
I was taken down to the intensive care unit where I met my ve little miracles: Violet weighing 1.2kg, Daisy 1.3kg, Logan 1kg, Lincoln 900g and Lily 1kg.
“Fifty tiny ngers and toes,” Skyler said.
“ey’re perfect,” I said. Adjusting to life as a family of nine was challenging to put it mildly. ankfully, both Skyler’s parents and mine lived nearby, so they all helped a lot.
Our neighbours brought meals over, and came to help with feeding the babies, too. Our social media channels became our main source of income as we had so many viewers and sponsors that supported our family.
e boys pitched in to help and were so proud of their little siblings.
It was crazy chaos and
I was permanently exhausted, but we quickly got into a routine. I ordered all my groceries online.
Holidays were possible if a friend or family member came with us to help.
In time, Skyler and I decided to separate. We’d married young and by 2021 we realised we wanted di erent things.
Now, we co-parent and have all the kids for alternate weeks. We’ve kept our socials going. He’s in charge of YouTube and I run the Facebook page. We make it work for us.
Recently, I started dating again but it’s early days. My priority is still very much my children.
e quints are ve, and they are all so di erent. Violet is creative. Daisy is quiet and artistic. Lily is theatrical. Logan is into engineering and Lincoln is passionate.
Shayden is 18 and has moved away to college and Landon, 13, still lives at home.
Every morning, I make all the kids get dressed for the day before they eat breakfast.
en they line up and I do everyone’s hair, before heading out the door to catch the bus to kindy.
Not a day goes by that I’m not incredibly grateful for what I’ve been given. Gratitude keeps me going.
Our parents helped a lot
Emily Forrest, 27, Flemington, Vic.
Lying in my hospital bed, I watched my sister Abbey hold my newborn, Arlo. “He’s so cute that I forgive you for going into labour on my 16th birthday,” she joked.
“I was just getting you an extra special birthday gift,” I laughed.
“I can’t wait to be a mum someday, too,” she confessed.
“You’re a natural,” I told her, smiling.
Abbey and Arlo were like two peas in a pod as he got older.
She often came over to look after him when I returned to my job as a track rider – where I exercised the racehorses – and my partner Joel, 26, was also at work.
Growing up, Abbey and I rode our ponies on the backroads of Drysdale, Vic, together.
“When are you gonna ride the racehorses with me again?” I asked her one day.
“e last time you convinced me to go for a ride, I was thrown o ,” she laughed.
Busy studying her VCE at high school, she kept her horse Mia in our parents’ paddock and planned to get back into it.
When Arlo was three, Abbey, 19, visited with exciting news. She and her partner of nine months, Inderpal,
28, nicknamed Indi, were expecting.
“I’m nally going to be a mum!” she cried to me.
“You’ll both be amazing parents,” I gushed.
Abbey and Indi rented a townhouse in Point Cook, Vic, to prepare for the arrival of their new bub.
ey were moving in when Abbey went into labour on November 13, 2020.
at night they welcomed their beautiful daughter, Ivy into the world.
Peering into my niece’s hospital crib two days later, I couldn’t take my eyes o her tiny face and mop of dark hair.
“She’s exactly half you and half Indi,” I said to Abbey, smiling.
“Isn’t she perfect?” Abbey said, tearing up.
A week later, we all met for dinner at our parents’, Alan and Elizabeth’s place.
I loved watching Abbey with the baby she’d always wanted. Indi worshipped his new bub, too.
Two weeks later, I was stuck at the mechanics with Arlo, having my tyres changed, when Dad called.
“You need to come to ours right now, Em,” he demanded.
It wasn’t like him to sound so stern.
I asked the mechanics to rush my car through, and soon I was making the half hour drive with Arlo.
My gut was telling me something was very wrong.
At the house, my stomach sank when I saw a police car. Inside, two coppers were in the hall and I could hear Mum wailing.
One o cer ushered Arlo away while the other took me into the living room. “It’s your sister,” he said.
“ere’s been a re.” Dropping to the oor, I started screaming, unable to take in anything else.
When they left, I convinced myself they were wrong.
ey didn’t actually say she was dead, I thought.
But watching the news with my parents that night in a haze, images of Abbey’s charred townhouse ooded
‘I’m finally going to be a mum’
the television screen.
“e remains of a man, woman and baby have been found in a Melbourne house,” the newsreader said.
It must be the wrong house,
I thought.
After a sleepless night, Joel and
I drove to Abbey’s home the next morning. My heart broke when I spotted her red car parked in the garage of the burnt home.
“ey’re really gone,” I wailed, nally accepting it. It was even more horrifying to think little Ivy was just 19 days old.
We’d assumed it had been a tragic electrical re but next day, police returned to my parents’ house to speak to us again. “We’ve arrested a woman on suspicion of arson,” he said.
We were shellshocked. Police gradually shared more information about what had happened on December 2, 2020 – the night of the re.
Indi had a friend, Paul*, staying downstairs, who brought Jenny Hayes, 46, a sex-worker, over. Paul and Jenny got in an argument and Paul ran away, leaving Jenny at Abbey’s house.
Jenny messaged Paul, threatening to call police and accuse him of rape, then he blocked her number.
Enraged, Jenny sent another message.
I’m setting your house on re right now, she said. After setting the mattress alight, Jenny left the house, taking pictures of the inferno from her car. Upstairs, Abbey, Indi and Ivy were asleep. ey were unable to escape the blaze and died of
carbon monoxide poisoning. I hope they didn’t feel any pain.
Trying to parent my son through the tragedy and explain why his beloved aunt wouldn’t be here anymore was di cult. “Aunty Abbey’s gone to heaven now,” I told Arlo as he sobbed.
Two years later, in 2022, Jenny Hayes, 48, pleaded guilty to three counts of arson causing death and was sentenced to 13 years in prison, with a minimum of eight years.
Knowing that Jenny could be free within six years, with time served, is terrifying after what she did. Her actions killed an entire beautiful family.
Life is quieter now without Abbey.
Every Christmas our family sits at Abbey and Ivy’s grave and has lunch with them.
Mum and Dad spend time with Abbey’s horse Mia each day – she’s a little bit of Abbey for them.
Joel and I are no longer together but working with horses has been like therapy for me, too. It reminds me of my sister.
Abbey’s name is on a keyring on my saddle and her initials are embroidered on my helmet cover, so she’s always by my side.
Now, I’m teaching Arlo to ride and telling him stories of how Aunty Abbey and I trotted around town on our horses.
We only had 19 years with Abbey, and 19 days with Ivy, but we plan on keeping their memory alive forever.
‘They’re really gone’ I wailed
Rod Gardner, 45, Launceston, Tas.
Istood outside the beautiful old building and looked up. It was an art studio and gallery with lovely arches, and inside I imagined people standing at easels painting landscapes and portraits.
“I wish I could do that,” I mumbled.
“Move out the way,” a stranger said roughly, pushing me aside as he walked past.
I shu ed o , knowing people like me weren’t wanted inside buildings like this.
It was 2004, I was 27 and had been a drug addict since I was 18.
Having smoked pot as a teenager, I got a job as a cleaner in a hospital in Launceston when I nished school.
ere, I made friends with a medical student who introduced me to amphetamines.
While he could control his drug usage, I quickly became an addict.
In time, I became hooked on heroin and ice, and most nights I roamed the streets, alone with my thoughts.
My mum, Shirley, despaired of me because my father had been an alcoholic.
I spent years sleeping rough on the streets.
One day, my girlfriend
Katrina, who also used drugs, decided we needed to go to Cairns.
“Why Cairns?” I said. “I think it will be good for us,” she replied.
Her parents had con scated her car but somehow we convinced them to give it back to us. We got a ferry ticket from the Salvation Army in Launceston and made it to Melbourne. e plan was to drive to Cairns from there.
We stayed in e Gatwick Hotel, a hellhole for druggies where people got murdered.
“You should be out sur ng, not in here,” an old user told me.
“I know,” I agreed, but the pull of drugs was just too strong.
Every week, we spent our bene t money on drugs.
But eventually we made it up to Cairns and found a BnB that backed onto the Kuranda rainforest.
ere were no hard drugs up there then, and that became our saving grace because we were forced to get clean. It was painful, but we were driven by our surroundings and by each other’s determination to build a better life.
Katrina got a job with the rainforest station and I did odd jobs with a builder.
Over two years, we made enough money to pay back our debts to our friends and family back in Tasmania.
“I’m ready to go home now,” Katrina said one day. “Me too,” I agreed. We drove back to Launceston, ready to make a go at a new clean life.
And when we got there, Katrina fell pregnant.
After years of drug abuse, we’d thought she couldn’t conceive.
I quickly became an addict
“It’s a miracle,” Katrina said to me.
“It’s our gift for cleaning up, Trina,” I said.
Our son Charlie was born in 2009 and that’s when life really changed for me.
It gave me empathy and made me realise what it was all about.
I carried on doing odd jobs and Katrina worked for a charity nding housing for homeless people.
She went on courses and got quali cations. I was incredibly proud of her.
We had our other son Oliver in 2010.
I’d loved art at school as a kid so one day I started doodling.
“You’re good!” Katrina said, surprised.
“I think I’m going to take this seriously,” I said.
I bought some canvas and an easel and experimented with watercolour paints.
I painted a portrait of my uncle Michael Mansell, a Tasmanian Aboriginal activist, and it was put up in the Tasmanian
Aboriginal Centre.
After that, people suggested I apply for grants from the Tasmanian Arts Council which I did and things just took o from there.
What I loved most was painting the streets that I used to roam when I was living on them.
I set my easel up and strangers would walk past and stop and comment.
“at’s wonderful,” an old lady remarked.
“How much do you want for it?” another said.
I loved that when I looked at the painting later, I could remember the people who stopped for a chat.
I set up a Facebook page and sold my paintings on there.
For my rst exhibition, my mum and family all came to support me.
“I’m proud of you son,” Mum said.
Every morning I woke up, itching to get going.
At rst, I copied what
I saw but as I got more experienced, I started capturing the feeling of the place and that’s what seems to resonate with buyers. In 2018 I received the Vita Brown Bursary, a grant for emerging artists, and also won Tasmanian Aboriginal Artist of the Year.
After that, I got contacted by Leoni Du , a famous local artist.
“Would you like to come and teach at my studio?” she asked.
“I’d be honoured,” I replied.
at rst day, I was absolutely terri ed.
But as I walked up to the beautiful old building on Brisbane Street I was suddenly struck by how far I’d come.
I thought back to how I used to look up at that building as a drug addict, feeling intrigued and intimidated.
And here I was, about to teach painting to others.
It was a wonderful moment.
I now teach classes there to adults, and I also teach Aboriginal kids to paint.
Awards and accolades are lovely, but after those years on the street what means the most to me is having a home to hang a painting up in.
I’m also proud of Katrina and I. Not many addicts maintain their relationship after they get clean.
ere was a point when we had nothing, now we have a home and a beautiful family and I love my life. I couldn’t be happier.
I woke up, itching to get going
Katey Babbage, 28.
Iheld out my glass so my friend Courtney could top up my wine. “Do you mind if my mate Dan comes and meets us later?” she asked while pouring.
“Not at all,” I replied. “e more the merrier.”
It was 2016, and we were getting ready for a Christmas night out.
Once we were glammed up, we headed into town, and Dan, 19, joined us at the pub later.
When he walked through the door, I couldn’t tear my eyes from him.
As we spent hours on the dance oor together, I couldn’t deny a connection, too.
I had a boyfriend of three and a half years, but I was unhappy.
Meeting Dan gave me the push I needed to end things with him.
Shortly after that, Dan and I exchanged numbers and went on a date at a pizza restaurant.
From there, things happened fast and a year later we moved in together.
en, on my birthday in 2020, Dan took me to a nature reserve I used to visit with my grandparents.
ere, he got down on one knee. “Will you marry me?” he asked.
“Of course!” I cried. Lying in bed together a couple of weeks after the engagement, we began talking about our fantasies.
“Is there anything you’ve always wanted to try?” I asked Dan.
“I’d love to see you with another man,” he told me. I was taken aback. “I’ve never thought about opening our relationship to others,” I said.
Dan was understanding and didn’t put any pressure on me, but over the next few months, we chatted on and o about the idea of non-monogamy.
e more I thought about it, the more open I became to the idea.
“I’m just worried about feeling jealous or insecure,” I told Dan.
“For me, the jealousy adds to the experience,” he admitted. “But boundaries must be set to ensure it feels comfortable and safe for both of us.”
We agreed that if we did open our relationship, it would be purely sexual, with no dating or emotional connections.
Deciding to give it a go, I started irting online with other blokes interested in polyamory.
I wasn’t comfortable with Dan seeing other women, which he was okay about.
He was more turned on by the idea of me with a man.
In 2021, I took the plunge and arranged a hook-up with one of the men I was messaging. Dan dropped me o at his house.
“I’ll message you throughout the night,” he said, kissing me goodbye.
Knocking on the door,
I felt nervous but excited, and once inside it wasn’t long before things got frisky.
“Do you mind if we record this?” I asked, telling him my boyfriend would like it. “Go for it,” he said.
I was surprised by how much I enjoyed myself.
When I got home, I showed Dan the footage.
“at’s so hot,” he said with a grin.
Over the next year, I slept with a handful of di erent men.
en, watching TV one evening, in 2022, an advert for Open House ashed on
the screen.
It was a relationship documentary exploring polyamorous relationships, and they were looking for couples for the show.
“is would be perfect for us,” I said.
By then, I’d come around to the idea of Dan being with another woman.
We applied and heard back within days.
“We’d love to have you on the show,” the producers told us over a Zoom call.
First, there was a masquerade ball where everyone taking part could get to know each other.
We then chose who we wanted to sleep with.
e rst night, we had a threesome, where Dan and I slept with another man.
en, the next night, Dan and I and another couple had a foursome.
It was my rst sexual experience with a woman, and I loved it.
We also met another couple on a retreat, Kirsty and Tom, and after swinging together, we became such good friends, I asked Kirsty to be my maid of honour.
Before Open House aired, I told my dad’s girlfriend about our lifestyle.
She and Dad had been together for 12 years, so we were close. She seemed understanding, but once we’d left each other’s company, she told my dad, who refused to speak to me afterwards.
I’ve never been close to my mum, so losing Dad really hurt. ankfully, Dan’s family were a lot more supportive.
My family refused to attend our wedding, so I was grateful when Dan’s dad, Steve, o ered to walk me down the aisle instead.
We booked a hotel near the sea, and in September 2023, wearing a white satin dress, I walked down the aisle in front of 20 of our closest friends and Dan’s family.
Afterwards, we danced until the early hours.
My bridesmaid, Beth*, didn’t know many others at the wedding, so she spent most of the night dancing with me and Dan.
All too soon, the DJ was playing his nal tune, and the night was ending.
“Fancy coming to our room for a few more drinks?” I asked Beth. “De nitely,” she said. We danced around to ABBA in our wedding suite as the rain hammered down outside.
“Let’s dance on the balcony,” I cried, inging the doors open.
We jumped around until we were soaked through, then stripped o our wet clothes. Once naked, things started heating up.
We had our rst threesome with another woman that night, which made our wedding night extra special.
Beth was into polyamory, too, so it wasn’t strange. She’s still my closest friend.
Our experiences have inspired us to become more adventurous.
Recently, we visited a sex club with two couples and swapped partners all night.
Exploring an open relationship has been so much fun, and we’re excited to see where it takes us.
We know ourselves better now than ever and know this is who we are.
Once naked, things heated up
On average, almost every hour of every day an Australian woman dies from heart disease. Yet tragically, the warning signs for women are also often more likely to be missed.
“Heart disease is one of the biggest killers of women in Australia, yet only one in ve Australian women are aware of this. Many of the symptoms women experience may not be recognised as heart disease, thus increasing the likelihood of a missed diagnosis,” says Nicci Dent, CEO of Heart Research Australia.
“Although men su ering from a heart attack typically describe chest pain or discomfort, women are more likely to have non-chest pain symptoms such as shortness of breath, weakness, fatigue and indigestion, and frequently with worse consequences.
“Physicians are also more likely to underestimate heart disease risk in women and this can in uence their diagnosis and treatment.”
IMPORTANT STEPS
“Our rst message is that women should see their GP for a Heart Health Check,” says Natalie Ra oul, from the Heart Foundation. Checks are recommended for all people over 45, as well as Indigenous Australians aged over 30.
While some risk factors can’t be changed, such as age or family history, you can make lifestyle changes. “Improving your diet and weight, increasing your exercise levels, managing your cholesterol and blood pressure levels, and quitting smoking can have a big in uence on your heart health,” she adds.
LOOK FOR SIGNS
We’ve all seen heart attacks in movies, but in real life, you may be more likely to overlook the signs than you think.
“When it comes to heart attacks, women are more likely to experience more subtle signs, with many symptoms easily attributed to other conditions,” says Natalie. “Women are slower to respond to the warning signs of a heart attack and even when they present to hospital, they’re less likely to receive the same life-saving treatments as men.”
The warning signs can be missed
Symptoms can include:
• Unexplained fatigue
• Shortness of breath
• Cold sweats and nausea
• Swollen feet, legs and ankles
• Pain or discomfort in one or both arms, neck, jaw or stomach
MAKE THE CALL
If you think you or someone else could be having a heart attack, call triple 0 at once.
“Time is crucial,” says Natalie. “Treatment can start over the phone. If it turns out to simply be indigestion, that’s not a bad thing – better to take action than consider the alternative.”