Two Vaginas Drove Pal to Death
Published: 16 Oct 2007
[img_r]http://img.thesun.co.uk/multimedia/archive/00372/kerrie_372814a.jpg[/img_r]TRAGIC Kerrie Wooltorton longed to have children.
But she had two vaginas, which meant it was almost impossible.
Here Kerrie's best friend Melanie Miller, from Norwich, describes how the rare condition drove her to suicide.
"I've just had sex," whooped Kerrie.
"That's brilliant," I cried.
Kerrie and I had been friends for 13 years and at 25 she'd lost her virginity at last.
It was a big event because until now she hadn't been physically able.
Kerrie had a rare condition called uterus didelphys, which meant she had two vaginas, two cervixes and two uteruses.
Her confidence that night was something new - actually Kerrie had spent most of her life avoiding boys and sex.
Things were different for me. At 18, I fell in love with Simon and we had a baby, Chloe.
When Kerrie first met Matthew, a couple of years later, their physical relationship hadn't got off to a great start.
I well remember the sound of Kerrie's teary voice on the phone after several failed attempts.
"It's impossible," she sobbed.
Devastated, she went to the doctor.
She was told she'd have to wait a few years until her cervix had stopped developing to have her first smear test.
That, he said, would show up any abnormalities.
During that time Kerrie and Matthew split and she slipped into a dark depression.
She even started self-harming and was diagnosed with depression.
Two years on I'd split with Simon and became pregnant again after a fling.
To soften the blow to Kerrie I asked her to be my baby George's godmother.
"Thank-you," she gasped, "It means so much."
A few months later the summons for Kerrie's smear test finally arrived.
During the appointment I sat with her in the hospital as the specialist told us about uterus didelphys.
At least it was treatable.
The fleshy wall dividing Kerrie's vaginas could be removed, allowing her to have sex, and hopefully to conceive too.
Thankfully the operation was successful and eventually she and Matthew got back together.
And a few months on Kerrie and Matthew had taken the first step to fulfilling her dream of motherhood - she'd had sex.
Everything revolved around Kerrie's desperation for a baby and she was constantly in the loo with a pregnancy test.
But as months passed, the happiness faded.
"My period's arrived," she'd sob.
I'd try to reassure her but nothing soothed Kerrie's anguish.
One night I sat alone while the kids were in bed and suddenly my mobile buzzed.
It was a text from her.
I've taken an overdose, it read. I'm sorry. Please don't call an ambulance.
Panicking I dialled 999 and then asked my neighbour to look after the kids before heading for Kerrie's place.
When I arrived at Kerrie's five minutes later her door was open and upstairs she'd passed out on the bed.
"What have you done?" I wailed.
Kerrie was still breathing so I pushed her into the recovery position and waited for the ambulance.
At the hospital doctors pumped her stomach and confirmed she'd live.
"I'm sorry, I can't live without a baby," she whispered.
Those words made me crumble.
When I took Kerrie home the next day, Matthew was waiting.
But soon, Kerrie called me in tears.
"We've split because of what I did," she howled. "I'll never be a mum."
A few nights later Kerrie texted me again.
I've taken another overdose, it read.
Fury rushed through me.
"You stupid girl," I howled at her in the hospital.
Thankfully the overdose was unsuccessful.
"What's going on in there?" I said, pointing to her head.
"Go home and read my diary," she replied.
I raced to Kerrie's, determined to find out how to help.
If it wasn't for Chloe and George, I might not be here, she wrote in one entry.
"I just don't feel like a real woman without a baby."
How could I stop that kind of pain?
Over the next two months, I saw Kerrie through another three overdoses.
For my birthday we went for a bottle of wine and suddenly my emotions came pouring out.
"I can't understand why you text me," I wept.
"To say goodbye," Kerrie cried. "I always say not to call an ambulance."
I felt my face turn purple.
"You expect me to let you die?" I yelled.
"I can't help you any more," I said, standing up. "You have to help yourself."
Part of me thought not having me to depend on would help.
Our friend Sarah kept me up to date about how Kerrie was making a fresh start.
I was so proud - but then Sarah called to say Kerrie had attempted suicide again.
I rushed to the hospital, my heart thumping with worry.
A doctor explained Kerrie had drunk anti-freeze and her organs were failing.
The room began to spin.
For the next five hours, I stayed by Kerrie's side, willing her to wake up.
I left briefly to take my kids to school but shortly into the journey my phone rang.
"I'm sorry," a nurse said gently. "She's gone."
I waited for an explosion of grief. But nothing came. I just felt numb.
That night, I went back to see Kerrie - in the hospital's chapel of rest.
She looked so peaceful.
I felt as if part of me had died.
Two weeks later, at Kerrie's funeral, I remembered our happy times together.
I laid some red roses from George and Chloe on her coffin - a final goodbye from the children she loved.
I'm slowly coming to terms with my best friend's death.
I can forgive Kerrie - life without children was too painful for her.
Her friendship has taught me something special - motherhood should never be taken for granted.
It really is a gift.
If you are feeling suicidal and need to talk, call the Samaritans on 08457 90 90 90 or visit samaritans.org
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