My heart aches so much. In two hours I would've been leaving the house to go for my 35 week scan; tired and ready to slog my massive body across town. Ready to have my babies now. It would be the last scan before they were due to be born at 37 weeks.
I was told that they couldn't find Molly's heartbeat - Twin 2 at that stage - and I cannot describe for you what happened in that time. All I remember is the world caving in on itself and I was battling to breathe.
Today marks the death of not only my daughter, but the death of a dream. A life we had envisaged and had, over the course of the last almost 8 months, planned for.
This pic below was taken a year ago last night. My Brit used to hold my tummy and talk to the 'boompties', as we called them.
My boompties, together, a life that they were destined to share, in every conceivable way.
I didn't know she had died when the Brit took this picture. Life really can change in a second.
Here I am at work, at my desk, and it's all very civilised and everyone - the world - just carries on around me. What would I do without Sebastian, I wonder. He is my light, my joy, my everything. I am so lucky to have him beyond everything that has happened. I live for this little boy.
But, I can't help but feel that society (and even some of my friends and family) prefers that I not talk about my deceased child, and sometimes I feel judged a lot of the time I do speak about it. But I refuse to not not speak about Molly. I choose to talk about her because it acknowledges her existence, and that is my duty as a mother. To ensure her memory lives on. And to ensure that she knows, wherever she is, that I, as her mother, will never, ever, forget her. Or stop loving her.
Another poem I loved by Dr Elizabeth Pector, who lost one of her boy twins, and dedicated a website of poetry to her sons. They resonate completely with me, and have adapted it for Molly and Sebastian.
I miss you my girl. Everyday.
2 separates into 1+1,
One life lost while another's begun.
Is this why even now I hate
To see in print my twins' birthdate?
Registering for a toddler class
Recalls that day of sorrow past.
"What's your son's birthdate?" they ask on the phone,
Unaware the same date's on his twin's tombstone.
That fateful day, on 18-3
One born to earth, one born to heaven
My twins after months of waiting arrived.
We always thought they'd both survive.
My greatest fear: not a broken heart,
But how I'd tell my twins apart.
"Paint one's toenail," people would say,
But nature found another way.
Sebastian emerged, his small cry our thrill.
Molly came after, silent and still.
Distinguishing my twins became quite plain:
1 alive, 1 dead, twin joy and pain.
1+1 for most is 2,
But I've been given a different view.
1+1 is not a sum,
But rather, a paradox begun
On one cold Monday in March
"2's day," twin motherhood not as customary
But with loving, rejoicing and grieving combined,
The day my twins became untwined.
My 1+1 can never be 2
They're separate forever. Now all I can do
When I see 2 followed by 1 and 1
Is feel pride and pain for my dear twin daughter and son.