I was already a mother of three when I lay back for my 10-week ultrasound in 2019. At first, seeing the gel on my stomach and the flickering black and white image on screen was familiar and soothing. Then I saw the look on the sonographer’s face.
She dropped the probe and ran out of the room without a word. I tried not to panic, but by the time she sprinted back in with a doctor, who looked at the screen and said, “Oh my goodness”, I was terrified.
I now live in California but I was born in Ukraine; English is my second language. I heard the words, “It looks like you have conjoined twins” but I didn’t understand what that meant. It was only later, when I got back to my car and looked up the word, that I fully understood what was going on.
I called my husband, Anatoliy, sobbing. He promised to come home straight away. I began driving. I was a mess, swinging from feeling certain I’d need a termination, to denying this was happening at all. I felt as if I was going mad. Then, as I sat at a red light, I suddenly felt this sense of calm wash over me. It was like a sign from God.
Anatoliy ran through our front door, looking worried but determined. These are our children and we love them already, he said as we hugged. I replied calmly that I had decided to simply take each day as it came.
At the specialist clinic a few days later, doctors explained our girls were craniopagus twins, conjoined at the head. It is an incredibly rare condition, occurring in just one in every 2.5 million live births. I gripped Anatoliy’s hand as we heard that their chance of survival to delivery was slim. I thought about the babies I had seen on the screen and refused to give up hope.
Despite constant medical appointments, I tried to live a normal life. My friends were amazed to see me meeting up for meals and celebrating at their baby showers. But that normality kept the fear at bay.
Four months later, we had some good news. An MRI scan confirmed there was a decent chance the girls could be separated in the future. We were relieved but cautious, knowing there were still so many hurdles to go.
More than 200 medics prepared for my delivery. One twin would be looked after by “team orange” and the other by “team purple”; each team would have neurologists, heart experts and plastic surgeons.
My waters broke early. Being rushed to hospital was stressful. All I recall is asking people to pray for me, then the girls being whisked away to intensive care as I lay in a haze of medication.
When I finally saw my daughters the next day, all I could think was: they’re perfect. We named them Abigail and Micaela. Holding them in my arms, I felt overwhelming love.
Everything from changing nappies to breastfeeding required a combination of imagination and instinct – a standard bath wouldn’t work, so we used a clear plastic box – but to me, they were just my girls. They had different personalities. Abigail was alert, while Micaela was calm. Every milestone – the first smile, the first babble – felt precious.
Finally, in October 2020, at 10 months old, they were ready to be separated, in a daunting 24-hour procedure involving 30 medics. It
felt endless, and because of Covid-19 we couldn’t wait in the hospital. We were texted updates at every step, and when we were told the operation had succeeded, I felt so relieved, I struggled to breathe.
I sobbed with happiness as I ran into the hospital and saw them separated for the first time. They were able to turn around and look each other in the eye. It was a moment any other mother of two would have taken for granted – but to me, it felt like a miracle.
That sense of wonder hasn’t faded, even as I watch six-year-old Abigail dash about and Micaela carefully follow behind. I hear their secret twin chatter, see how adored they are by their brothers, and wonder at their very existence. It was amazing when, at five, they could look at their own baby photos and understand that one girl was Micaela and the other Abigail.
This journey has shown me a strength I didn’t know I had, and the power of not looking too far into the future. Today they are here, and that is enough for me.
• As told to Kate Graham
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