There I was, standing alone in the hallway of the Drawbridge Inn, just outside of the “meet and greet” room at my first Twinless Twins National Conference in Cincinnati.  I felt dazed, confused, scared, overwhelmed with sadness, and for the first time in my life, I felt totally hopeless.  What was I doing here?  Pete can’t really be dead.  I stared at the colorful design in the carpeting beneath my feet and my thoughts drifted to the events of the last three months.  My identical twin, Pete, had died of a heart attack at the age of 46.  We had just experienced a wonderful weekend visit together.  Pete was on a business trip to Chicago from Dallas where he had lived for the past eight years.  I pondered our last conversation we had in my living room that Wednesday morning.  We talked about our plans for the future, of Pete’s retirement in four years, and of his moving back home to Chicago to start a new phase in our lives.  I remembered driving Pete to the airport with the car windows rolled down and feeling the breeze of that unusually warm February day.  Then, there it was, like a kick in my stomach, the memory of what was to be our last hug.

I was jolted back into the present as people began walking past me in the conference center hallway.  I remember thinking, “is he one of the twins?  Is she?”  I walked over to the doorway and peeked into the quiet room.  I saw the neatly arranged round tables covered with white linens and decorated with festive centerpieces.  I observed the buffet table filled with bowls of snacks along with trays of cheese cubes, and wondered if I was going to be able find the courage to enter this room later.

I went back to my room and lay on the bed clutching my framed photo of Pete, and sobbed.  I did not want to be here.  If only I had not promised Dr. Brandt I would attend – then I could leave.  My thoughts once again returned to the memories of the hospitals, the ventilating machine, and the first week of hoping that Pete would regain consciousness.  Then I remembered having Pete airlifted back to Chicago where I was sure that his condition would improve.  Next, the memories of the family meetings, my signing the documents to have Pete removed from life support, and then the four days of waiting for my twin to die.  Finally, the still unbelievable scenes of Pete’s wake, funeral and burial.  I remember marveling that I had survived these last three months.  I drifted back into the huge dark hole of my hopelessness.  There must be hope. There had to be hope.  Dr. Brandt made it through this.  The other twinless twins that I met on line made it through this.  What did they have that I didn’t have that allowed them to survive this?  

Then, like a tiny flicker of light in a dense fog, I saw that my only chance of finding hope was at this conference.  I pulled myself together and mustered as much courage as I could and headed down to the “meet and greet” room.  As I neared the room I heard bursts of laughter and sounds of joyful greetings.  My first thought was that I was nearing the wrong room.  Surely these sounds were not radiating from twins who had lost their twins. As I entered the doorway, I noticed the nametags that people were wearing.  The nametags each had two names on them – their name along with their twin’s name. This was the right room.  I remember thinking, “but how can this be? – they are hugging, laughing and are happy to see each other.”  There it was.  HOPE.  “Is it possible?  Will I really be able to be happy and laugh again, too?”  I said to myself, “Maybe?  At least I now have hope.”

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