Through my years working in the little northcountry maternity unit, Ive helped bring roughly twelve thousand babies into the world. Yet a few cases cut themselves into my memory, and the one that still stands out is our only set of triplets. Let me tell you about them.
It began with a young couple expecting their first child. The father, Tom Harding, had been posted to our village as an aircraft technician at the modest airstrip that serves the area. They lived in a cramped room in the local hostel. The mother, Emily Whitaker, was a lively, brightredhaired Londoner, strikingly beautiful calling her a woman feels almost too modest. Tom came from the Welsh valleys; he was stocky, easygoing, almost languid. In those stillpeaceful days of the early 2000s, such a mixed background was perfectly ordinary.
Early on, they learned they were carrying twins. Emily planned to travel to London to give birth with her own mother, but the labour started ahead of schedule at just 32 weeks. She was rushed into our ward as I was on duty. The main hospital block was being deepcleaned, so we were operating out of the temporary gynecology annex.
Our oncall obstetrician, Dr Diana Collins, examined Emily and instantly suspected the babies were malpositioned. Natural delivery would have been extremely risky, so a Caesarean section was ordered. An Xray confirmed the picture: two little bodies, one headfirst, the other breech.
We entered the theatre together. The first boy emerged, weighing 1kg700g. While I, along with the scrub nurse, tended to him, the team extracted the second boy, 1kg600g. Just as we were about to finish, Dr Collins called out, The third! I wasnt in the mood for jokes the two boys were already fragile.
Then the third child appeared a tiny girl of 1kg400g. My mouth fell open. She hadnt shown on the scan at all. It turned out the two boys had been lying side by side along the uterus, and their little sister was tucked perpendicularly beneath them, hidden from view. The three little gentlemen had shielded their sister from prying eyes.
If Diana hadnt insisted on the operation, those infants likely wouldnt have survived. We placed the newborns together with the nurse in the sole incubator we had for preterm babies. It was cramped, but they all fit. I stayed by their side the whole night, worrying fiercely. By morning their conditions had steadied.
At dawn the ward door rang. A handsome man in a RAF flight suit strode in. Who are my children? he asked. I took a breath and said, Congratulations you have two sons and a daughter. The news took a while to sink in. He muttered to himself, Two sons a daughter three? before sliding down the wall and sitting down, water offered to him. Hed arrived from the posting, barely earning enough, cramped in a tiny flat. And now he faced triplets.
The babies stayed in our unit for weeks, gaining weight and strength. I loved checking on them, marveling at natures miracle. Though there were three, each was wellcared for and fed. Emily was everpresent, careful, with a constant bright smile. It was the first set of triplets our town had ever seen, and the little family was incredibly fortunate. The council promptly gave them a threebedroom house in the new estate, supplied all the essentials, and even arranged a dedicated health visitor for the first few months. Yet the true hero was Emily a stunning young woman who raised all three children with boundless love.
Ten years later I found myself in the hospital waiting room. Vicky Harper now Emilys sister walked in with the three kids to visit their father. Two darkhaired boys, the spitting image of their dad, followed, and then came a spry, brightredhaired girl, a perfect replica of her mother. Seeing that happy family filled me with joy; I could still feel the warmth radiating from those wonderful children, hear the tiny beats of their hearts echoing in my mind.
