12March2025
Tonight I put pen to paper after another long shift at the little birthing unit up in the North Yorkshire moors. In the dozen years Ive spent here, Ive helped usher the first breaths of about twelve thousand newborns, but a handful of cases are etched into my memory like fresh ink. One of those, and the only set of triplets Ive ever witnessed, still makes my heart race whenever I think of it.
The parents were a young couple sent to our little town by the NHS allocation system. The father, James, was an aircraft technician at the modest airstrip that serves the surrounding farms. They lived in a cramped singleroom flat in the council-owned hostel. The mother, Emily, was a brighteyed Londoner with a cascade of fiery red hair that seemed to catch the northern light. She was the sort of woman who could fill a room simply by strolling in, and calling her a woman felt almost a disservice.
James hailed from the rolling hills of Cornwall, broadshouldered and calm, with a relaxed manner that made everyone feel at ease. It was the late 1990s, and back then it wasnt unusual for two people from such different corners of England to be paired together by the health board.
Early in their pregnancy, the couple learned they were expecting twins. Emily decided to travel back to London to deliver under her mothers watchful eye, but the labour began prematurelyat just thirtytwo weeks. By sheer luck, Vicky was admitted to our unit just as I was on night duty. The main birthing block was undergoing a deep clean, so we were temporarily set up in the gynaecology wing.
Our oncall midwife, Diane Harper, was a seasoned professional with a reputation for spotting trouble before it blossomed. During her visual assessment of Emily, she sensed something amiss with the babies positions. The risk of a natural delivery was too great, so she ordered an emergency Caesarean. An Xray confirmed the worry: two little bodies, one headfirst and the other breech.
We moved swiftly into theatre. The first boy emerged, a fragile 1.7kg bundle, and we set about stabilising him while the scrub nurse prepared for the second. The second boy followed, weighing 1.6kg. Just as we thought the job was done, Dianes voice cut through the bustle: Prepare for the third! I had no humour left for jokes; the two boys were already fighting for life.
What came next left me utterly gobsmacked. A tiny cry rose from the tray, and therewas a third infanta girl, weight 1.4kg, wrapped in a pink blanket. She had been completely hidden on the Xray because the two boys were lying sidebyside along the length of the uterus, while she was tucked perpendicularly beneath them, shielding herself from view. It was as if the little gentlemen were protecting their sister from prying eyes.
If Diane hadnt insisted on the operation, those three might never have survived. We transferred the newborns to the only incubator we hada small, preterm cots unit designed for just one baby at a time. We coaxed them all into that single cradle; miraculously, they fit.
I spent the entire night at their side, my nerves on edge. By dawn their tiny chests were beating steadily. The wards old bell rang, and a tall, handsome figure in an RAF flight suit stepped through the doors. He was James, eyes wide with disbelief.
Who are my children? he asked, voice trembling.
Congratulations, I replied slowly, you have two sons and a daughter. It took a moment for the news to sink in; he kept muttering to himself, Two sons a daughter three three? I offered him a seat and a glass of water, trying to steady his bewildered mind.
James and Emily were still living in a modest flat, hard up on wages, and suddenly they were the proud parents of a set of triplets. The children stayed in the ward a while longer, gaining weight and strength. I found myself visiting often, marveling at the miracle of three tiny lives pressed together, each wellcared for, each fed, each smiling despite the odds. Emily never stopped beaming; her joy lit the whole ward.
The trust board acted swiftly. They allocated a threebed house in a new development, furnished it, and provided a stipend for the baby essentials. For the first few months, a dedicated health visitor was assigned to the family, ensuring the newborns needs were met. Yet the true hero was Emilyher determination, her boundless love, and her fierce protectiveness lifted those three little ones from the brink.
Ten years have slipped by. I happened upon the outpatient clinic today, and there she was againEmily, now with silver strands in her hair, strolling in with her children. The two boys, darkhaired and almost identical, stood beside their sister, a brighteyed redhead who could have been a twin of their mother. The sight of that family, happy and whole, made my chest swell.
Seeing them reminded me that we, as caregivers, are merely the custodians of lifes fleeting moments. The real work begins when the parents step in and carry the torch forward.
Lesson learned: No matter how small or hidden a miracle may be, it will find its way into the light if you have the courage to look beyond the obvious.
