I had never heard of the terms “chemical pregnancy” or “missed miscarriage” before going through them myself.

We decided to try for a baby and somehow fell pregnant the very first time – I was amazed! Sadly our happiness was short lived as only 24 hours after seeing a positive test I started bleeding, I was devastated and confused. We were told quite bluntly that it was a chemical pregnancy, a cold and clinical term for a very early pregnancy loss and not much cause for concern.

I was determined to keep trying, and by some miracle we fell pregnant again the next month – again I was shocked it had happened twice in a row, and confident that we had had all our bad luck – this was our time.

The pregnancy progressed normally as far as I could tell, I had sickness and the usual symptoms everyone talks about right up until the day of the 12 week scan, so we really had no reason to think anything was amiss. We were nervous but excited that morning as it meant we would soon be able to share our good news.

I don’t think I have ever experienced feelings of true hopelessness before this.

Going into the 12 week scan is a painful memory that will never leave me, there was an awful silence from the sonographer and then we heard those dreaded words “I’m so sorry, but there’s no heartbeat”. The room started spinning and I felt cold panic rising in me, I wished that it was a nightmare I would soon wake up from. We sat quietly, completely stunned, whilst we waited for the second opinion which was soon confirmed, and we were informed it was a “missed miscarriage” – a term completely alien to me. Our baby had died at around 9 weeks but my body had battled on, not realising what had happened.

I don’t think I have ever experienced feelings of true hopelessness before this, I felt utter despair at the future that had just come crashing down around us, and angry at my body. I felt terrible for my husband, it was his loss too, and I also knew he would inevitably be picking up the pieces of my sadness, as well as managing his own.

What was supposed to be such a happy day ended in us having miscarriage “management” information fired at us – somehow it hadn’t yet occurred to me that of course I would need to physically miscarry, it felt very daunting with no option sounding easy. I chose the medical method, which meant taking tablets to start the process and then hopefully my body would do the rest.

…my miscarriage was incomplete and I had an infection from what remained, left untreated this would have become very serious.

The days that followed were incredibly difficult. The process for me was very painful and frightening, I felt out of control and overwhelmed at what my body was going through physically and emotionally. In between the cramps I lay scrolling social media, looking at people living their ordinary happy lives and couldn’t help feeling some resentment at that. Why us?

Eventually the pain subsided and the bleeding lessened, I somehow made it into work just a week later but I still felt quite unwell and generally out of sorts. I couldn’t shake off the sweats and I kept getting episodes of chills every so often. It became so bad one night that my husband dragged me to A&E where they found my miscarriage was incomplete and I had an infection from what remained, left untreated this would have become very serious.

I spent a few days in hospital on a drip and then finally had a D&C, the “surgical management” option. Waking up from the anaesthesia I felt relieved that the cramps had gone and that my ordeal was physically over. It was time to try and move on.

Life was very up and down for a few months after that – sometimes I felt strangely positive about the future, and other times I was very depressed about it all and never far from bursting into tears. The overriding feeling for me was intense loneliness – even though I had my family and friends, I still felt very isolated in my feelings and also physically. The little being I had been sharing my body with for 3 months wasn’t there anymore and I missed them. My heart and body ached for our baby, motherly instincts were lingering and I had nothing to put them towards. I remember crying watching clumps of my hair fall out in the shower and thinking how unfair it was to be going through a form of post-partum but no baby to show for it.

I felt a bit lost and struggled with my place in the world. Being pregnant I had started to step into this new identity of being a mum, but sadly now I was no longer pregnant and I couldn’t quite go back to the old me, stuck in a strange limbo.

I went into self-preservation mode, determined not to get ahead of ourselves this time. 

We started trying again with no success for a while, which felt like a cruel trick after it had happened so easily at first. Every time my period rolled around, I would feel a strange mixture of disappointment and also relief, another month without having to worry about miscarriage.

Eventually we got another positive test just after Christmas. I had only tested so that I could have a guilt free wine at the weekend, but lo and behold there were 2 lines. We didn’t jump around for joy like you would expect, we simply just braced ourselves like we were going into battle again. It felt like shop shutters coming down or putting on a suit of armour – I went into self-preservation mode, determined not to get ahead of ourselves this time.

Update:

At the time of writing this piece I was about 27 weeks pregnant with a little girl and emotionally it was a very difficult pregnancy with lots of ups and downs. Miscarriage robbed us of the usual pregnancy excitement and filled me instead with anxiety. I was waiting for something to go wrong at every turn and it was exhausting. Our house remained completely void of any baby items, the thought of having them and not the baby was just too upsetting. And instead of the big happy announcement we once dreamed of making, we ended up telling people later than usual and quietly, asking them not to make a fuss.

We eventually met our rainbow baby in September 2023 – Mia, via a planned c section. I couldn’t quite believe she had made it earth side and I cried with relief when they finally placed her in my arms. I often think of the little ones we lost, wondering who they would have been. I sometimes find myself consumed with guilt and confusion, as I know that if they existed then Mia would not and she is my world. Trying for another baby is not a decision we will take lightly, I’m not sure we can go through that again.

My heart goes out to all those who have been through similar or any kind of baby loss and I am very grateful to TWGGE and their community who saw me through some dark times when I felt I had no one to turn to. If anyone would like to get in touch for a chat then please feel free to contact me.

At 00:15 on 21st January 2025 my baby was born inside her sac. She hung from me by her tiny spaghetti like cord as the midwife held her to try clamp the cord. I was in awe at how perfectly human she was and not this alien I was half expecting. What do you expect a 16-week-old baby to look like? Just 30 hours earlier I had been told my baby had died. I was on my own. I called my husband who had no idea anything was wrong and told him his baby was dead. I text my mum and sister “baby is gone”. I had no words. It all felt wrong.

12 days prior, on a Friday afternoon, I started getting chills, dizziness and a headache. By the Sunday I started passing pink mucus discharge and having some abdominal pain in my lower pelvis. I called triage and the midwife said it sounded like flu/COVID and thrush (I did not agree). These symptoms continued for around a week, despite antibiotics from GP for suspected UTI and thrush treatment recommended by triage but I got no better.

On Sunday 19th January, day 10 of being ill, I started leaking pink water and getting stronger pains. I called triage that evening and after much reluctance from the midwife on the phone she agreed for me to come in but stated ‘I would not be eligible for a scan’ even though I never asked to be scanned…

“She asked me three times if there was anyone that could come and be with me. ‘No,’ I replied. My husband was abroad.”

Once admitted to triage the midwife that saw agreed it looked like my waters had gone and informed me the consultant was going to come scan me. The look on her face said it all really. She asked me three times if there was anyone that could come and be with me, “No” I replied each time as my husband was unfortunately abroad. Soon after the consultant came and scanned me “I’m sorry there’s no heartbeat. Your baby has died” it felt like a movie, an alternate reality, a cruel joke. My baby was dead.

I was in hospital for 4 days. I was already in labour when I was admitted (though subsided after a few hours) and because of 2 previous caesarean sections, medical management was decided the best approach to lessen the risk of my scar rupturing and requiring another section.

I never held her, but I’m glad I have some memories with her — handprints, time beside her, and the image of her perfect little form.

The following morning sepsis was mentioned, I had two ‘nasty’ infections with markers over 220 for one which was initially rising. I dread to think what would have happened if I hadn’t gone in when I did. After I birthed my baby, I spent a full day with her thanks to a cuddle cot available in the bereavement suite I was in. I actually cut open her amniotic sac to meet her properly and made handprints and memories with her, though I never held her, I’m glad I have some memories with her.

No one knows what to say to someone’s who has lost a baby, especially a ‘miscarriage’. I was at that awkward stage of second trimester loss, passed that ‘safe’ mark.

We had told loads of people. I had a visible bump. Our children knew. We were making plans. Looking at cars. Picking names.

I remember having to tell my mum to cancel my hair appointment as I would be given birth to my dead child instead. I asked my sister tell my children’s nursery teachers what had happened so I didn’t have to when I eventually saw them. So many people we had to ‘untell’. I am so grateful for my sister during this time, she was essentially my birthing partner due to the unfortunate circumstances of my husband being unable to be with me.

I have since put I’m a complaint regarding the triage calls as I felt my concerns weren’t listened to and the delay in my care resulted in my husband not being with me. It most likely wouldn’t have made a difference to my baby living as she possibly passed around the 14-week mark but we will never know. It haunts me to think I could have gone into septic shock whilst caring for my two young toddlers (1 & 3).

We were having a baby. Now we’re not.

I would never want anyone else to experience this loss. To sit at their own child’s funeral.

I feel numb. It doesn’t feel real. I just want my daughter.

We were having a baby. Now we’re not.

I grieve for the person she could have been. The sister my children would have had. The joy she would have brought to our lives.

Our little star. Bigger than the whole sky.

Baby Mackinnon

Everything started for us back in January 2018, we decided in the December we’d start trying & found ourselves pregnant after the first month.

I remember being upset but I’d heard miscarriage was common, 1 in 4 & thought that was just our 1.

It was only about a week after finding out that we were pregnant that I started cramping & within 24 hours was miscarrying.It was a bit of a blur at the time, we hadn’t really gotten our heads around being pregnant & what that meant before it was over. I remember being upset but I’d heard miscarriage was common, 1 in 4 & thought that was just our 1.

We got pregnant again a few months later & happily brought our little boy, Theo into the world following a relatively straightforward pregnancy. Just over a year later we decided to try for number 2, we fell pregnant within a couple of months in the first Covid lockdown. I was sick, all the usual first trimester symptoms, we got past that 6-week mark & naively the prior miscarriage was a forgotten blip.

I was just over 10 weeks pregnant & despite not being far from our 12-week scan, I decided to buy my husband a private scan for his birthday, it was the middle of Covid so it seemed like something that would make the day memorable. I lay on the table wondering if I’d managed to fill my bladder enough as I felt so sick I wasn’t drinking much, we were just chatting away as the sonographer put the scan up. I don’t remember exactly how things went after that but I do remember almost feeling like I was being told off, why had I not realised something was wrong, I must have got my dates wrong because the foetus was only 8ish weeks in size. A total lack of compassion & sign posting to an EPU. We were devastated.

We opted for a medical procedure following that. It took a lot longer for me to pass the baby than expected, a few days after the medicine I had these intense cramps and ran to the bathroom, before I could get to the toilet, what I now realised was the baby literally fell out of me on to the floor, the size of a big tampon there on the floor. I stared at it not knowing what to do, then picked it up and flushed it down the loo. No one prepares you for that.

Now we were 1 in 20-100 having a missed miscarriage. Following that we had 2 further early losses at 6-7 weeks. It was the darkest time in my life, we withdrew, it wasn’t hard, we were still in Covid so we could avoid people. We struggled to get any help with the NHS because we already had a child. I just had some blood tests & an ultrasound, when they didn’t find anything (after a possible cancer scare that turned out to be a highly incompetent doctor) we were discharged. I remember asking can I access any mental health support given what we’ve been through & was told there are long waiting lists you should just try going private.

The one thing that has remained true throughout our story is the complete lack of support available to families in these situations. I’ve got to the stage where I think I’m crazy for expecting more. After 4 miscarriages we were now 1 in 100, ticking the recurrent miscarriage box too. We ended up seeing a private doctor who was so brilliant, we are very fortunate that we were able to afford her support & I truly believe we have our 2nd son, William, because of her brilliance. She prescribed us with progesterone pessaries that I have taken in all my subsequent pregnancies and I’ve not miscarried again. I have a feeling that so many women would benefit from this intervention & not have to go through all this pain but it’s not always accessible on the NHS which is devastating. With William, again our pregnancy was relatively straight forwards, we were blessed.

That brings us to last year, it took us a long time to decide whether to try for a 3rd but in March 2024 we made the decision & got pregnant that first month of trying. It all felt too easy, how could this be? I was 38 now, we had so much loss before, surely, we weren’t just going to have another baby because we wanted it. I don’t know why I had that underlying feeling but we had scans at 7 weeks, 10 weeks, 12 weeks, my cervix was checked at 16 weeks & I saw our baby moving around, we were in the safe zone we thought as all our other losses had been before 11 weeks. At 18 weeks I expected to start to feel movement, I knew I had around that point with the boys. It didn’t come, I tried not to freak out, I knew I could have an anterior placenta or maybe my memory was a bit off but by 19 weeks I was preoccupied with the thought that I had a dead baby inside me. We were on holiday in Portugal at the time but the minute we got home I went to pregnancy unit & they listened in. To my disbelief they found a heartbeat & told me “That sounds like a happy healthy baby, you probably have got an anterior placenta, don’t worry, your 20-week scan is only a week away”. My husband wanted to see the baby regardless so we booked a private scan the next day to find out the baby’s sex with the boys as they wouldn’t be able to come to the NHS scan. It was a little girl!

When we left, I looked at the papers, she was <1st percentile on some measurements. That’s when our world started to fall apart.

After the scan the sonographer pulled me aside & asked if the boys had been very small babies. I said not abnormally small; Theo had been 5th percentile but William bigger. She said she wanted to share the results with the midwife as she was concerned. When we left, I looked at the papers, she was <1st percentile on some measurements. That’s when our world started to fall apart.

The NHS would not see us before our scheduled 20-week scan 5 days later. We sat in that waiting room with these happy round bellied women for what felt like forever. I was shaking & crying on the bed as she took the scan, and she said “I agree with the private scan but also the baby’s thorax is the wrong shape. You need to go to foetal medicine.”

We were taken to a private waiting room & ushered out the back door. It took a couple of days to get in to foetal medicine, during this time we had no idea what was going on, what range of outcomes we were looking at from survival & everything is ok to losing the baby. It was a total head f***. Meanwhile trying to pretend to the boys like we were ok & not knowing what to tell them as they grew more excited about having a baby sister. I was so scared to tell the boys, but surprisingly that was one of the easier parts about the whole ordeal.

The foetal medicine appointment was horrendous, we were scanned for over an hour, we didn’t look at the screen, we couldn’t. Eventually they took us into a room & told us what they thought was wrong with our little girl. I can so vividly see the doctor saying to me, “many people would choose to terminate based on these results”. I can see her face, the room, hear those words. The worst moment of my life.

We decided we wanted more certainty so had the amniocentesis the same day & went home. To say that we then felt abandoned at this point is the only way I can describe the next 3 and a bit weeks. I trapped myself inside not wanting anyone to see me & work out I was pregnant, for me to have to tell them I was but things weren’t looking good. We had next to no correspondence from the NHS with the exception of the geneticist calling to explain the tests, then to say she didn’t have Downs’ Syndrome or any of the other more common disorders. We were basically told to contact the midwives when we decided what we were doing- i.e. terminating or looking for palliative care at birth. After 3 weeks & no results we asked for another scan, who knew, perhaps there had been a miracle. The evening before the scan we did get a call from the genetics lab to tell us that the gene they had suspected was fine but they would keep looking for something else. As much as I wanted to suppress it, I had a shred of hope. That was all shattered the next day when the scan revealed she was still tracking very small & it was clear to the doctor she had a form of skeletal issue they just hadn’t pinpointed it yet. Sure enough, we got the call later that day to say they had found the gene & that alongside the scan suggested that the severity of the issue was not compatible with life. I didn’t know it was possible to cry that much.

I had to sign to say, yes you can kill my baby. No one should ever have to do that.

We made the decision that it was in her best interest not to put her through the birth for her to die during or shortly after and that we would go ahead with the termination. A few days later we were booked in. By this point I was over 24 weeks so we would have to have a foeticide, I had to sign to say, yes you can kill my baby. No one should ever have to do that.

2 days later we gave birth to our tiny Georgie. I was so thankful to TWGGEF for the podcasts from others that had been through TFMR. It meant that we did a few personal things such as buying her a little Teddy & taking her a book that we’d read to the boys to read to her etc. and accessed guidance I wasn’t able to find anywhere else nor did the bereavement midwife suggest.

We were a bit scared; how would she look? She was so beautiful & just fit in my hands. The midwife that helped us that day was the most incredible, compassionate woman, thank you Jane for making that day as easy as possible & for really caring for our little girl. I’m crying as I write this.

I’ve had so much anger in my grief, primarily at the lack of emotional or mental health support that has been on offer to us. Apparently, I have been coping too well to access maternal mental health support & numerous charities have either not replied to me or been inaccessible due to the post code of the hospital where Georgie was delivered.

And there we are, one of the 5,000 couples that have a TFMR each year in the UK. There are no statistics for the likelihood of a baby having the gene defect that Georgie had, we’ve finally broken the stats!

I could say so much more but I think I’ve run out of room. Thank you Bex & Laura for all that you are doing to help have our stories heard & improve the care and compassion that women & their families so desperately need. You are incredible. With lots of love x