Real Life
Lydia Lewis blamed herself as her babies fought for survival
the picture that means so much
As I looked out the window and waited for the new Year to be welcomed in by the fireworks outside, I felt content for the first time in months. Just hours earlier I’d introduced the world to my twin boys and I’d been flooded with messages of congratulations. only, while there was no denying my babies were gorgeous, people weren’t fawning over them because they were tiny newborns. This first glimpse of them came nine months after their birth.
Falling pregnant with the boys wasn’t easy – my husband Garry and I tried for a year before we went for fertility tests and got advice from our GP, who suggested IVF. By then I was in my 30s and ran a successful PR company, while Garry worked as a marketing communications manager. We just wanted to start a family.
Our first two rounds of IVF were unsuccessful, and our third round was booked in for September 2015. Two weeks later, while Garry and I were visiting my mum and dad in Birmingham, I just couldn’t stop thinking about whether it had been a success or not. So, while Garry was chatting to Mum, I snuck off to the bathroom to take a test that I’d been given by the clinic. It was the longest three minutes of my life, but it was worth the anxiety when two little blue lines appeared. ‘I’m pregnant!’ I said, running from the bathroom, to tell Garry. I’ll never forget the look of elation on his face or my dad sobbing with happiness.
I had a difficult pregnancy, with horrendous morning sickness from the start. But at a six-week scan, we were told we were expecting twin boys and Garry and I couldn’t have been happier, our eyes fixed on the little blobs on the scan image. We had regular two-week scans, which showed our boys were fine, but our excitement was short-lived.
An ultrasound at 20 weeks showed the babies had twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome, meaning one twin was taking more nutrients from the placenta than the other – one was growing too quickly, and the other wasn’t growing enough.
It wasn’t something we’d ever heard of, so Garry and I weren’t sure how to react. Our consultant seemed calm as he spoke about a laser procedure to correct the problem, so we tried our best not to worry.
Prepare for the worst
The same day, I had laser surgery to help even out the share of nutrients. It was successful, but seven weeks later, my waters broke, and I discovered that it could have been because of the surgery. I was kept in Watford Hospital to be monitored but on 8 March 2016, my risk of infection was so high that my doctor ordered the babies be delivered straight away by emergency C-section. ‘It’s the safest option for all of you,’ he explained.
I was only 29 weeks and terrified that the boys wouldn’t stand a chance. Before I’d even had time to cry or prepare for the worst, I was dressed for surgery and rushed on a bed down to theatre. Garry was pale, gripping my hand hard as a screen was put up around me.
After five minutes I heard two screams from our baby boys, Joel and Oliver. ‘They’re OK,’ Garry said, voice breaking. Except, what should’ve been a precious moment was tainted as our babies were rushed to special care before I’d even had a chance to hold them. I’d been robbed of those first precious moments, which I felt was my duty as a mum to have.
I felt every minute of those first few hours apart from them and when I was finally wheeled by Garry to see them that evening, I had to catch my breath.
‘we just wanted to start A family’
‘all i felt was shame’
Joel was the smaller twin and was a lot weaker than Oliver.
While I was watching him, his little chest rising and falling sharply, suddenly there were beeps and nurses rushed around him. I watched in horror, completely helpless, as he was resuscitated. His lung had collapsed so he was blue-lighted to Addenbrooke’s Hospital in Cambridge for specialist care.
Garry and I spent the next week travelling between both boys. It was exhausting and every time I saw them, I was racked with guilt that the reason they were so poorly was because of me. ‘If I’d carried them to full term, they’d both be healthy,’ I said to Garry. Of course it wasn’t as simple as that and Garry reassured me I’d done nothing wrong, but I couldn’t shake the negative thoughts. Could I have done something differently? Had I eaten something I shouldn’t? Did I sleep in the wrong position, drink too much water? I was plagued with bad thoughts and even when the boys started to get stronger and were eventually discharged that May, on Garry’s 37th birthday, I still felt tremendous guilt that I wasn’t good enough to be their mum.
While Garry proudly took photos of the twins on his phone and sent them to his friends, I couldn’t bring myself to do the same. It was as though, by showing my sons to the world, I would be unveiling how badly I had failed them. Garry was so worried about me, and I did my best to mask my emotions, but they were just overwhelming. I often lashed out, begging him to leave me, but he stuck by me.
When Garry went back to work, I spiralled into an even darker place. On the occasions I took the boys out in their pram, I tried my best to hide myself. If I saw another mum approaching, I would march on without stopping – I didn’t want to talk to anyone and I didn’t want anyone to see my boys. I didn’t reply to friends’ texts either, asking me questions about the birth or congratulating me – because I truly believed I didn’t deserve their kind words. Garry did his best to speak to people, but all I felt was shame – I wasn’t meant to be a mum. My bubbly, sociable personality had disappeared, and I didn’t recognise the woman I was any more.
I’d spend days caring for the boys and doing everything I could to make them comfortable and happy, but every time one of them cried I blamed myself for being a terrible parent.
Getting help
After seven months of struggling, I knew things needed to change and when Garry suggested seeing a counsellor, I didn’t object. I eventually found a cognitive behavioural therapist called Nicky, who listened to my doubts, grief and anger. ‘You have post natal depression and post traumatic stress,’ she said. I had weekly therapy sessions, and although it took time, gradually I began to accept that I wasn’t to blame for what had happened and that I needed to be the strongest version of myself for my children. ‘You’ve got to focus on the boys,’ Garry said, and I listened.
When my counselling ended in December, I knew what I needed to do. I needed to stop hiding myself away and start the New Year afresh.
So, on New Year’s Eve 2016, I took a photo of Joel and Oliver on my phone, giggling and playing with their dad, and posted it to Facebook. Alongside it I wrote a message to my friends, apologising for pushing them away and if I’d upset them.
The replies of support I received were overwhelming. And that first picture posted on Facebook is now buried beneath hundreds of other photos which show that, not only am I proud of my boys, I’m finally brave enough to say that I’m proud to be their mother.