12October2025 Diary
Through my years as a midwife at the little maternity unit in the remote northern hills of Northumberland, I have helped bring roughly twelve thousand newborns into the world. Yet a handful of cases have lodged themselves deep in my memory, and among them sits the one that still makes my heart skip a beat the only set of triplets I ever tended.
It began with a young couple who had just been transferred to our town under the National Health Services placement scheme. The father, Tom, was an aircraft technician stationed at the modest airfield that serves our community. The mother, Claire, hailed from London a brighteyed, fieryredhead who could have turned heads on any night out in Soho. Tom himself was originally from the Midlands, a sturdy, laidback fellow whose calm demeanor made him a natural fit for the job.
When they first arrived, they lived in a cramped room of the staff hostel. Early in the pregnancy the couple were told they were expecting twins. Claire, eager to be near her own family, planned to travel to London for the delivery. Fate, however, had other ideas. At thirtytwo weeks, labour began unexpectedly, and Claire was rushed into our ward just as I was on duty.
The main block of the hospital was undergoing deep cleaning, so we were temporarily operating out of the gynecology annex. The oncall obstetrician, Dr. Diana Clarke, an experienced and compassionate doctor, examined Claire and immediately sensed something was amiss with the babies positions. A natural birth, she warned, would be perilous. We decided on an immediate Caesarean section and ordered an Xray to confirm the layout.
The radiograph revealed the truth: two little boys were lying side by side, one headfirst and the other feetfirst. With that confirmation we moved swiftly to the operating theatre.
The first baby emerged, a boy weighing 1.7kg. While I and the attending nurse tended to him, the team gently coaxed out the second boy, 1.6kg. As we were securing the second infant, Dr. Clarkes voice rang out from behind me, Bring the third!
I barely had time to register the words. The two boys were already fragile, and here came a third? I muttered a few curt remarks to my colleagues, but a sharp cry stopped me cold. There, nestled beneath the two boys, was a tiny girl, 1.4kg, cradled crosswise in the womb a position that had hidden her from every scan.
I could hardly believe my eyes. The two little gentlemen had, quite unintentionally, shielded their sister from prying sight. Had we not performed the operation, none of them might have survived.
We placed the three newborns in the sole incubator the unit owned for preterm infants. It was a tight squeeze, but they all fit. I stayed by their side the entire night, my nerves raw with worry. By morning the babies had steadied, their little chests rising and falling in a soothing rhythm.
A knock on the door announced the arrival of a handsome young man in an RAF uniform Tom, returning from his night shift. Who are my children? he asked, eyes wide with disbelief. Congratulations, I said slowly, you have two sons and a daughter. It took him a moment to wrap his mind around the fact that three tiny lives now belonged to him.
He slumped onto the wall, bewildered, and we offered him a glass of water. Tom had barely settled into his new post, his pay still modest, his living quarters cramped. Yet here he was, holding the future of three little souls.
The weeks that followed saw the trio gain weight and strength under our watchful care. I loved visiting their cot, marveling at the sheer miracle of life. Claire was a picture of gentle competence, her smile never fading, even as the nurses whispered about the rarity of a firstever triplet birth in the county.
The hospitals administration promptly arranged a threebed council house for the family in a newly built estate, supplied them with all the essentials, and even assigned a health visitor to help during the first few months. Yet the true credit belongs to Claire, whose radiant beauty and indefatigable spirit lifted her children from the brink of death to a thriving childhood.
Ten years have slipped by. By chance I found myself in the reception area of the local health centre one afternoon, when Claire walked in with her three nowgrown children. Their two boys, darkhaired and strikingly reminiscent of their father, followed closely behind a sprightly redhaired girl, a living carbon copy of Claire herself.
Seeing that happy family filled me with a joy I can scarcely describe. Their laughter echoed through the corridor, and I could still feel the faint thrum of their tiny hearts in my minds eye.
Looking back, I realise that the day we chose to operate was the day I learned the true weight of responsibility. In medicine, as in life, you must trust your instincts, act decisively, and never underestimate the quiet strength that can hide in the most unexpected places. The lesson I carry forward is simple: when faced with uncertainty, let compassion guide your hands, for it is the steady beat of the heart that ultimately saves the day.
