Twins have a dual identity. When one of them dies, the next of kin mourns the loss of the other, the loss of a part of themselves, and the loss of the unit. This can lead to a profound identity crisis. American psychiatrist George Engel, who himself lost a twin, found three additional factors that distinguish the loss of a twin from other forms of loss:a faded ego (including confusion about who has died), loss of identity (who am I, , am I still a twin?) and a sense of merging with the other, which means it can take a long time before the death is accepted. Karin talks about the loss of her twin sister.
“Jeanne and I are fraternal twins; we evolved from individual eggs. So biologically we are just sisters, the special thing is that we were born together. I used to think that our bond was nothing more than a very close sisterhood. Only after her death did I realize that there was a line.” Said Karin, who suddenly lost her sister when she was forty.
“When she died, I literally felt something snap. It exploded. I was born ten minutes earlier than Jeanne and I often heard in the past:'You are the oldest, you must lead by example.' We did not feel that distinction ourselves. Jeanne and I were two hands on one stomach. We slept together in a room and knew everything about each other. We both loved tinkering and hitting balls with the neighborhood kids. Together we were strong and we could take on anyone. Outwardly we didn't resemble each other very much, inwardly we were:we were social, creative, couldn't say no. Jeanne was at most a bit more business-like and more confident.
Being a twin also has less fun sides. As twin sisters, you are always compared to each other. My achievements were placed next to Jeanne's and I resisted that. It bothered me when people mixed up our names. As a twin sister you are part of a unity, but you also want to develop your own identity. It is nice to have your own class and your own circle of friends. Nevertheless, the connection remained; when we started living on our own and got partners, we still had daily contact.
You often hear about identical twins that they have a telepathic bond. We didn't have these all the time, but it happened regularly that we thought of the same thing. Sometimes I suddenly had the strong feeling that I had to call Jeanne and it turned out that something was indeed wrong. Jeanne once had a bicycle accident; she was hit by a car. The moment that happened, I felt very strange. When she had contractions and gave birth to her daughter Renske, I was suddenly very sick. The moment I held Renske in my arms for the first time was a wonderful experience. She felt like my own child.
Shortly after the birth of her daughter I started to suffer from vague complaints. Jeanne had nothing to worry about. She enjoyed motherhood, sat on a pink cloud. Until she got a bruise on her knee that just wouldn't go away. Not something to worry about right away. But one night from the hospital she called me. "Karin, we're not going to ride a bike tomorrow." She told me she had leukemia. She mustn't die, was my first thought, not her.
I would have loved to have taken over that illness from her. Why her – I had no children, wouldn't it be better if this happened to me? I was devastated. I also felt guilty for ignoring my own vague physical symptoms. Perhaps I should have interpreted those signals better, should I have warned Jeanne? Jeanne underwent chemotherapy and radiation. It was a tough treatment, but my sister was brave and rolled through it. When I told Jeanne I was pregnant, she was overjoyed. Together we enjoyed the prospect of her becoming an aunt. It went well for nine months.
My daughter Ymke was born. When I was in childbirth, Jeanne called:the results of the check-up were disappointing. I immediately knew it was wrong. Doctors again prescribed chemo, but they didn't work this time. Jeanne quickly backed off. We spoke very openly. Her greatest concern was her daughter. She asked if I wanted to keep an eye on Renske when she was gone, but that question was actually superfluous. What I felt for Renske, she felt for my daughter. The bond was so strong that this went without saying.
In the end only blood transfusions could prolong Jeanne's life. Bravely she went to the hospital twice a week. What lay before us was unimaginable, but also inevitable. Every now and then I was overcome by a strange feeling. Then I was at work or I was walking through the supermarket and I felt something jump loose. As if a thread snapped from a thick, frayed rope. Each time a thread broke, each time I came a little closer to the loss. Just before her death, the rope felt very loose. I slept at her house that night. Early in the morning I must have dreamed of her:Jeanne came to say hello. That's when I felt a backlash. The rope came loose. Shortly afterwards I was woken up to say that she had passed away.
Luckily I had both our daughters to take care of, that kept me going, otherwise I wouldn't have made it through the period after. I felt an unbridgeable gap. I had completely lost myself and the striking thing was, the pain did not become less intense. After a while I wanted to go back to work, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. The overwhelming feeling of emptiness remained. Nobody understood. I went to a psychologist, who said:'You don't need help, but time.'
It is now eight years later and I think:no, time will never completely close this gap. Of course, I'm working again, I'm enjoying myself again, I'm living my life, but the lack is still enormous. When I hear certain music, when I see two sisters hugging on television, when I see a colleague with twins in his arm, when I see that empty place at the table at a family gathering:there are still many moments when I miss me and I burst into tears. The hole may someday get smaller, but it will never completely disappear.
The biggest pain is that there is no one left who knows everything about me and feels exactly what I feel. I was part of a unit and it has been broken. With Jeanne, a part of myself has died, for which there is no replacement. Whatever happens, we are together, I used to think when disaster or adversity occurred. That basic trust suddenly disappeared and I had to learn to get it out of myself.
I'll never make it without you, I've often thought, but a person is resilient. The support and patience of those around me has helped me immensely. But I don't think I'm quite the old one anymore. I am less sociable and less spontaneous than I used to be. Caring for Renske is self-evident. Renske lives with her father and comes here a lot. Our daughters treat each other as if they were sisters. I often feel Jeanne around me. Help me out, I think to myself when I'm faced with a difficult task. I catch myself that I often still speak in the we-form. When someone asks about my date of birth, I say without thinking, "We were born on…" It's different than before, but in a way the unity is still there. I cherish it.”
This story was previously published in Santé. Text:Stephanie Jansen, Image:Getty Images
