When medics informed Jenna Hutchison that one of her unborn twins might need to be sacrificed to save the other, she recalls feeling her “entire world collapse”. Today, 12 months on, the mother who once dreaded leaving hospital empty-handed is now hanging two miniature Christmas stockings, dressing two miracle daughters in seasonal attire, and preparing for their first festive celebration at home with all three of her children together under one roof.

When doctors delivered the devastating news to Jenna Hutchison that one of her unborn twins might have to be sacrificed to save her sibling, she felt as though her world had shattered. Fast forward a year, and Jenna, who once feared leaving the hospital without her babies, is now joyfully hanging two tiny Christmas stockings and dressing her miracle daughters in festive outfits. This upcoming holiday marks the first time she’ll celebrate with all three of her children together at home.

Her identical twin daughters, Lily Belle and Ivy Grace, were born at just 24 weeks, each weighing a mere 458 grams (1 pound), comparable to the size of a soda can. These tiny fighters, classified as micro-preemies, endured a grueling 129-day stay in intensive care. Now, they are exactly where they belong—home, surrounded by family.

Before reaching their first birthday on December 2, the twins had grown significantly, each weighing in at a healthy 15 pounds (7 kilograms). Jenna’s pregnancy had initially seemed like a dream come true.

Jenna, a graphic designer, and her husband Chris, an architect, were thrilled to be expanding their family, providing their two-year-old son Hugo, who turns three on December 9, with siblings. Discovering they were expecting twins felt like hitting the jackpot. However, everything changed during a routine maternal-fetal medicine (MFM) scan at 16 weeks.

Doctors noticed an uneven distribution of nutrients between the twins. Lily was receiving more than Ivy, designating her as the recipient twin and Ivy as the donor.

“I couldn’t comprehend how this was happening,” Jenna recalls. “They were both inside me, so how could one be getting so much more?” By 22 weeks, the situation had worsened, leading Jenna and Chris to the dreaded quiet room—a place no parent in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) ever wants to visit.

“They told me they’d done more than 400 of these surgeries. I tried not to panic. I tried not to Google anything because that’s just how I cope, I bury my head and hope for the best.”

Jenna, 33, who lives in Queensland, Australia, entered theatre frightened yet optimistic. Upon awakening, the news was heartbreaking: the surgery had been unsuccessful.

The surgeons had been unable to continue safely owing to placental complications. Instead, Jenna and Chris were presented with the unimaginable choice to preserve one baby by terminating the other’s life.

“We refused,” she says. “The girls came into the world together for a reason. We couldn’t choose between them.”

Medical professionals removed 2.7 litres of fluid from her womb, alleviating her physical discomfort but doing nothing to ease the mounting dread within her. “I just kept thinking, how am I supposed to sleep knowing they’re getting sicker every day?” she says.

That evening, after returning home, she awakened at midnight and informed Chris her waters had ruptured. Premature labour was inevitable.

She was readmitted to hospital, bracing herself for a potentially lengthy stay as she desperately hoped to reach the crucial 26-week milestone, with each additional day in utero representing a vital developmental advantage for premature infants. The evening before hitting 24 weeks, her surgeon departed for a conference but was urgently recalled when Jenna began experiencing severe back spasms on the ward.

Jenna recalled: “I kept telling myself it was just from the procedures, but deep down, something felt wrong.”

Following the fluid-drainage operation, she found herself back on the ward, texting her relatives with directions so they could come and see her. Before long, her cousin, brother, mum, dad, Hugo and Chris had all crammed into her shared room, doing their utmost to maintain a cheerful atmosphere, even ordering custard for everyone, which Hugo considered absolutely marvellous.

Her father repeatedly enquired whether she was alright, but given her remarkable pain tolerance, she dismissed it as post-operative discomfort, lying there with a heat pack positioned on her back and another on her abdomen whilst the midwives kept watch over the babies. One midwife, Lucy, happened to be an identical twin herself, which Jenna interpreted as a wonderful omen, and she remained with the family, sharing laughter and conversation.

Around 10pm, everyone departed except Jenna’s cousin, who remarked that Jenna appeared to be going into labour. Jenna maintained she was perfectly fine, but at 10.30pm, whilst bending over to retrieve her fallen phone, an enormous contraction surged through her back and she understood immediately.

The woman behind the curtain, who Jenna had actually become friends with that night, was incessantly discussing her own pregnancy complications. Not wanting to interrupt, Jenna kept responding while silently panicking and searching for the call button.

When she finally pressed it, midwife Lucy appeared, asking if she needed another heat pack. “I need help,” Jenna managed to utter. From that point, everything burst into action.

A full medical team swarmed the room, examined her, and declared she was six centimetres dilated and needed to be whisked off to the birth suite immediately. What ensued felt like a scene straight out of Grey’s Anatomy – hectic staff, forms thrust into her hands, alarms blaring and Jenna crying out for Chris. “I’ve never screamed like that in my life,” she admits. “I just needed him there.”

She was hurried into the lift and, amidst the chaos of the moment, even attempted to tear off her Sagittarius necklace until the nurses gently said, “No babe, we’ll just undo it.”

In theatre, she was informed she’d require an emergency C-section and when they turned her to administer the epidural, a large rush of fluid spilled everywhere. She apologised, “like I could control it,” she chuckles now, and then the epidural took effect.

Chris arrived moments later after dashing to the neighbours’ house to stay with Hugo. Jenna rang her mum, although she was already aware as Chris had phoned her in a panic.

Behind the curtain, nurses caressed her head and clasped her hands like “absolute angels,” Jenna recalls. Then suddenly the theatre fell quiet, and two faint cries echoed through the room – Lily and Ivy, wailing at 24 weeks, sounding like kittens. The entire room was stunned into silence.

“Everyone just froze,” Jenna recounts. “Extremely premature babies usually need to be resuscitated, but my girls came out fighting.”

They tipped the scales at just 458g (1lb) each, the exact same weight – something staff even double-checked because they couldn’t believe it. Those initial cries signalled the start of a 129-day NICU struggle.

The twins’ skin was see-through, their veins clearly visible, their tiny bodies sustained by oxygen, feeding tubes, IV lines and round-the-clock monitoring. Both endured brain bleeds, lung disease, and eye disease.

Lily ceased breathing at one stage and required resuscitation. Ivy’s brain bleed was serious enough to place her at risk of cerebral palsy. Throughout it all, Jenna expressed breast milk continuously, desperate to contribute in whatever way possible.

“There were days I genuinely didn’t think they’d make it,” she reflects. “But we celebrated every tiny win.”

Last Christmas the family were in the NICU, petrified. Lily was experiencing a difficult night, and Jenna and Chris received the feared call on Christmas Eve informing them her oxygen had been increased.

But on Christmas morning, the NICU nurses delighted them by clothing the girls in miniature festive outfits and arranging a Christmas photoshoot. “Those gestures of love stay with you forever,” Jenna reflects.

This year marks a complete transformation. For the first time, the Hutchison family will wake together on Christmas morning. Hugo is thrilled about Santa’s visit, the twins are sporting coordinated festive outfits, and Jenna finds herself brimming with appreciation.

“It’s everything we dreamed of in the NICU,” she reflects. “Our Christmas miracles.”

As the girls approach their first birthday, Jenna plans to establish a fresh tradition of returning to the NICU each December bearing a thoughtful present from Lily and Ivy – perhaps something to recognise the nurses who preserved their lives or provide solace to parents currently facing the same ordeal. She recalls distinctly what that Christmas was like.

“It’s not fair, it’s awful, and nothing anyone says can make it better,” she reflects. “But your baby is in the best hands. NICU nurses are walking angels. I want to give every NICU parent the biggest hug. I hope next Christmas you’re home with your baby in your arms.”

These days, Jenna chronicles her experience on TikTok, committed to ensuring no NICU parent feels isolated. Observing Lily and Ivy now giggling, tumbling and flourishing, she explains Christmas has acquired an entirely fresh significance.

“We nearly lost everything,” she reflects. “Now we get to celebrate the best Christmas gift of all – having our girls here with us.”