Our “Your Stories” series are submissions shared with us via email or in one-on-one interviews, for the purposes of our research and campaigns. All names have been changed (unless the use of real names was explicitly permitted by the author), and we have sought permission to publish from the authors/interviewees themselves. The opinions expressed in these posts do not represent those of AWARE.

Natalie: I remember the exact date—24 April 2019—when my husband, Florian, and I found out that we were having triplets. We were initially unsure of how we would cope. However, we soon came around and fell in love with each of them. We looked forward to seeing the babies at every scan, seeing how much they’d grown, feeling their kicks in the evening as we played music for them.

Smooth sailing

We had a successful 15th-week scan before we flew off for our belated month-long honeymoon. We went to Zurich and Italy with our gynaecologist’s blessing. Our 20th-week scan, upon our return, showed our gorgeous threesome growing nicely. They were all growing a few days ahead of their gestational age.

Seeing our doctor had us in even better spirits. He told us that they were all doing well and as long as there were no complications, we only had to see him for routine scans.

On Saturday, 10 August, our dearest friends put together a little gender reveal party for us. We FaceTimed with family from abroad so that they could all watch the unveiling live. Baby A was a dear boy, and Babies B and C were our sweet girls. We were over the moon with the outcome, and more eager for the babies’ arrival.

Storm brewing

Two days later, I went into the hospital with some bleeding. The doctors found that I had an infection. I stayed in the hospital for two nights and, after a check on the babies and my cervical length, they sent me home. I left with a bag of antibiotics and an order to keep activity levels to a minimum.
The day after my discharge, we were back in the hospital. I’d shared with Flo that I was still bleeding and feeling slightly crampy after he came home from work. He insisted we go in to get checked, even though at 22 weeks and three days, I knew that the babies were not viable.

I feared that the doctors would call for them to be induced. I was not ready for that.

I was attended to quite promptly and checked for contractions. Apparently I was having contractions, even though I couldn’t feel any. The MO checked my cervix and immediately called for me to be admitted. They said I was already dilated by five centimetres. My heart turned cold. I felt so helpless.

For the next three days, I was in constant pain. They felt like contractions, initially 10 minutes apart and gradually increasing to three to five minutes apart, and each lasting about 50 seconds. By Sunday, I’d woken up ready to have our babies out because I could no longer bear with the pain. I was told by the doctors it may be better to let them pass naturally rather than be induced. After all, my cervix was now fully dilated and the membranes were exposed.

I tried. With every “contraction”, I tried to push. There was a two-finger gap between my upper and lower abdomen. I was convinced that our baby boy below was keen to come out. But there was nothing.

Hanging onto hope

That evening, after nurses found out I hadn’t peed the whole day, they inserted a catheter into me, draining away 1.7 litres of urine. That lower abdominal bump disappeared.

Florian’s and my spirits started to pick up. We were into the 23rd week and feeling more hopeful, thinking that the worst was over.

Every day, I prayed that the babies would reach 24 weeks. Yet Flo and I knew that that milestone wasn’t any guarantee for their long-term health. We had already agreed that should the babies come in the 23rd week, we would let them go, simply because survival rates were a mere 20-30% at that point—not to mention the multitude of health complications they might struggle with from being severely underdeveloped. We didn’t want them having to fight for survival in the first few days, weeks, months, years of their lives.

We hit 23 weeks and four days and the tides turned once more. At around 10pm, I kept feeling some kind of fluid flow out from below, but it wasn’t from my water bag. The nurses changed me and found that I had green discharge flowing out with a foul smell. Immediately, the doctor ordered for me to be sent to the delivery suite. I panicked, but Florian kept assuring me that everything would be OK.

Losing pieces of me

In the delivery suite, we were advised to have the babies out lest my own health be put at risk. With the infection already attacking my womb and fever spikes for consecutive days, the doctors said they couldn’t wait. 

For an hour, Florian and I debated what to do. I, filled with emotions and maternal instinct, wanted only to keep the babies. I wanted to give them a chance at life, even though days ago I had agreed to let them go. Florian was more rational but I couldn’t accept that decision. We argued. I was insistent.

In the end though, I knew within my heart of hearts that Florian was right.

At 2am on Friday, 23 August 2019—one day before my birthday—the doctor broke Baby A’s water bag. He didn’t take too long to come out. Even though he was still small, it was tiring. I couldn’t feel the contractions and the midwife had to keep going back to the monitor to tell me when to push. 

They had me on oxytocin to speed up and increase the contractions for Baby B. Another doctor came in about an hour later to help me break B’s water bag and get her out. During that time, Baby C’s bag broke too. Baby B came out strong-willed and crying. It was heart-wrenching. I had to cover my eyes, begging her not to cry. Finally, just before 6am, Baby C was out to join her big brother and sister.

The entire time, Flo was with me, holding my hand, giving me sips of water, keeping me going. When the babies were all out, I think I started to go into shock. I was cold and shivering all over, my muscles tensed, my mouth clenched. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t relax. Then, I fell into the deepest sleep, waking up only to feel like I was stuck in a boiler. I was so hot, I thought I’d peed bucket-loads on myself and it’d all seeped into the blankets below, sizzling up as though the table I laid on was a grill on high heat. I had Florian remove the blankets from me, to get me cold water, to cool me down with wet wipes as I floated in and out of consciousness. My temperature had shot up to 39.6 degrees C.

Angels now

At around 10am, the babies were washed and clothed in Angel Gowns (swaddles made from preloved donated wedding gowns), which looked pristine, white and soft. Each had a small knitted beanie over their heads; they were still a little loose. It took some time for them to be brought to us because of all the paperwork that had to be completed.

When our babies were brought in for us to see, they were more beautiful than we could have ever imagined. Seeing our babies there, doll-like and peaceful, made me realise that we had made the right choice. They came to us together, and they left us together. At least they are together in heaven, under God’s watchful eye, waiting for when Flo and I to join them.

We were asked if we wanted to take photos with or of our triplets and whether we wanted to carry them. They were so tiny, so delicate, that we couldn’t bear to hold them. They looked perfect and happy, next to each other. We chose to forgo pictures because we didn’t think it right to take them. Still, I am certain that when we join them in heaven, we won’t need a photograph to recognise them. We’ll just know.

Often, I wonder whether I could have done something more. Maybe I ate something wrong; perhaps I should have insisted on more tests and swabs for infections; maybe I was too active and did not consider just how risky this pregnancy was, especially since everything seemed to be going so smoothly.

Yet I know that it’s all over now. I know that I am not the first, nor will I be the last, woman to miscarry. I also know there are many hopeful mothers who have lost in their first trimester, and some even in their last. No loss is easy. No story is more tragic than another. The pain is something we all need to wade through. 

Florian and I take heart in knowing that God has bigger plans, even if we may not understand them just yet. Better things are coming. And while we mourn, our babies are together, in a much happier place, watching over us. We will always be their parents, and they our children. And we will always love them. Every single day.

A month following our loss, I started a website called Seeking The Rainbow. My desire was for this platform to be a place where mothers, and fathers too, can share their stories of pregnancy and/or infant loss. I want parents to draw hope of life after loss; and I want women who have gone through the pain of losing their child to know that they did their best, that they are not alone. We, are never alone.

I seek to shine a light on pregnancy and infancy loss. By raising awareness, I pray that women will not feel ashamed or inadequate because of what has happened. I want them to rise above the grief and find the strength to carry on; for their angel babies, for their children, for their future children and for themselves. I want them to hold on and trust that after the storm, there will always be a rainbow.

If you are experiencing any form of distress and need a listening ear, call AWARE’s Women’s Helpline at 1800 777 5555 (Mon–Fri, 10am–6pm).