We couldn’t find the words to express our happiness in October when we found out we were pregnant, 2 months after getting married. This was our first pregnancy so naturally some anxieties were there.

…the whole pregnancy so far, I had no reason to think anything was wrong.

My symptoms didn’t seem as bad as some of my friends so I thought I was quite lucky. We decided to book an early private scan which was when I was 6w6d, the scan gave us mixed feelings, the reassurance that everything was in the right place, however, we were told we measured at 5w6d and had a chorionic bump. The sonographer suggested we return in 2 weeks if we wanted. I left feeling deflated and immediately booked a scan for in 14 days’ time and tried my best to put it to the back of my head for those 2 weeks.

Scan day arrived and the first question we were asked “have you had any bleeding or cramping?” No, I hadn’t, the whole pregnancy so far, I had no reason to think anything was wrong. The scan went on for what felt like a lifetime and the silence was deafening, until I was told to get dressed and the sonographer’s assistant was going to make a call.

We were told there has been no growth and we were being referred to the EPU. We were asked if we wanted to see the screen and said yes, so we were shown the screen and I was completely and utterly shocked at what I saw compared to the first scan, the whole area now looked like it was filled with lots of small holes – I remember asking what it was and the sonographer saying it’s cystic tissue. I was so shocked at how much had grown, so quickly. I don’t think this is an image that I will ever forget.

My heart broke because in that moment, I knew, everything I had googled, was now my reality.

I spent the night crying and googling anything to search images that matched what I had seen and came across one which said molar pregnancy – something I had never heard of, I read some more and thought, this can’t be it, I don’t fall into the high-risk categories.

The next day at the EPU, I was taken for my blood pressure and the nurse said “you’re here for a partial molar pregnancy, is that right?” My heart broke because in that moment, I knew, everything I had googled, was now my reality. I broke down and went back to my husband and just said “it’s a molar”.

The scan then confirmed it and we were told it is likely a partial molar, then, in one sentence the consultant went from saying sorry for the loss, to the rare occurrence of a molar, to the potential of cancer. I was a mess at this point, we were given the option to go home and come back tomorrow or wait to speak to a doctor. There was no way I was going home so we were taken to a small quiet room and waited for a Dr, who brought some leaflets, took my blood pressure and a blood test. My HCG was 176,000 and we were asked to return in 4 days for my pre-op bloods, by then my HCG was >225,000 and my surgery was the next day (5 days after first diagnosis and 6 days after the scan).

10 days post-surgery, I received a call to explain testing was complete and it was a complete molar. My heart broke again. Everything I had read and listened to with partials, was no longer the case. Whilst the follow up is the same, things can be slightly longer and a higher % of requiring further treatment with completed.

I also knew (from my research) that you cannot try to conceive again until you are discharged, something I struggled with the most because it is all totally out of our control now and a waiting game. How can we have gone from being on cloud 9 finding out we were pregnant so soon into married life, to now have this what feels like, a never-ending wait.

I still cannot get my head around molar pregnancies, I have been told time after time, it’s a freak accident – not great when all you want is answers.

15 days after my surgery, I received my first kit and pack from Charing Cross (specialist hospital for Trophoblastic Tumour Screening). I have since had 2 blood tests and am currently waiting for the results from my latest. My drops have been great so far (thank goodness) and I know I am lucky at this point to have experienced such drops compared to some women.

I still cannot get my head around molar pregnancies, I have been told time after time, it’s a freak accident – not great when all you want is answers. There isn’t loads of information around and I found some Facebook groups to be a source of support and guidance.

To anyone reading this, worried, scared, distraught, I feel you, please reach out. It’s an extremely anxiety inducing time, I feel like my life currently is a cycle of waiting and anxiety, waiting for my kit, going for blood tests, waiting for the results, waiting for my next kit. I’ve also felt quite lonely, only a very small number of people around me (4) have heard of a molar pregnancy, and people don’t really fully understand the torment that comes alongside. I am remaining hopeful that I will not require chemotherapy and my HCG continues to drop in the way that it has, but I know this isn’t a given until we reach “normal” which is less than 5 and then we are discharged following a few extra weeks of confirmatory bloods to check levels remain normal.

I am spending my time currently doing lots of walking, eating well and having regular acupuncture to try and get myself into the best place physically and mentally for when we are discharged.

PS The image used is from Stephanie as her little flower corner brought me some light in the darkness at that time!

I never imagined how incredibly difficult it would be facing a miscarriage, until I’ve now had to experience it myself.

For 5 months myself and my husband had been trying to start a family. A shared dream that meant everything to us. The day that we finally saw that positive symbol on the at home pregnancy test was all our hopes and wishes come true, with the further 3 positive tests carried out to further confirm it.  With the greatest excitement I started the process of booking our first midwife appointment.

Just 5 short days after that initial positive test I started to bleed.  In a state of absolute distress and desperation I phoned my GP surgery which was still open to be immediately turned away and asked to phone NHS 24.  After being triaged by a nurse they gave advice to phone the maternity department at our local hospital. Who took details but advised the Early Pregnancy Unit was closed and that I would receive a phone call from them to following morning.  In the meantime, I was to put on a pad and if any worsening symptoms I could access A&E.  Since my bleeding started it was approximately 16hrs until I finally came face-to-face with a health professional and investigations were commenced. I can’t describe the level of distress and anguish during those long hours we waited.

Although I had my husband at my side, he was still trying to be optimistic and hold onto to the hope that everything would be okay.  Whereas I knew in my gut that I was likely losing our baby.  A sleepless night spent bleeding and knowing there was nothing I could do about it. The questions that kept circling round my mind were ‘what did I do wrong’ and ‘what is wrong with my body’ that I was unable to nurture this little life. It was my job to grow and keep our baby safe, I failed that role before it even truly began.

It was called into question by the nurse whether I had even been pregnant in the first instance.

We were seen promptly the next morning by the Early Pregnancy Unit when it finally opened. It felt like some horrible nightmare when we went into the ultrasound and they told me that they couldn’t find anything. I was in a complete daze and state of shock as we went from getting ultrasound scan to going into the specialist nurse.  The first question I was asked was ‘what did they tell you from the scan?’.  Something I thought that surely the staff could have communicated about before I went in.  Instead with the deepest pain I echoed the words I had been from the scan that they ‘couldn’t find an embryo’. It was called into question by the nurse whether I had even been pregnant in the first instance.  Which immediately made me feel like all this trauma I was experiencing was invalid. I knew that I had been pregnant, that I had felt that little life growing inside of me. After I defensively told them that we did 4 home pregnancy tests all of which were positive and that I could show them the photos, they conceded that a false positive was unlikely.

A blood test was fun taken to determine my Human Chorionic Gonadotropin (hCG) levels and I was told that I would be phoned later that day to advise of the results and to make a plan from there.  But then within that very same conversation I was suddenly being offered leaflets about miscarriage and a memory box.  How on earth did the conversation go from it being called into question whether I had even been pregnant, to getting a blood test taken (which I didn’t even have the results back from) to being given information on miscarriage?!  It was an inappropriate time to be given that information and I was in no state psychologically to receive it.

How could I possibly flush away or bin that little life that meant everything to us?

The bloods confirmed what I had known I was 3-4 weeks pregnant. I was asked to return 48hrs later for a further blood test to confirm that my hCG levels had dropped and that the pregnancy was over. During the course of that time, I was consumed with grief and horror of continuing to bleed and then seeing what I believed to be our baby.  I had absolutely no idea what to do.  How could I possibly flush away or bin that little life that meant everything to us. This was something we were left alone to try to cope with.

When we returned to the hospital 2 days later, I expected to be seen by the specialist nurse again. Instead, she brusquely asked if we were waiting for an appointment and it was another member of staff who eventually saw us.  It was apparent from their upbeat manner of the member of staff that they had no idea that we were there to confirm that I had experienced a miscarriage.  It was over the phone that I then had the confirmation that my hCG levels were no longer detectable and that it was a complete miscarriage.  I didn’t even have the opportunity to be face-to-face to get those results and to be able to ask the questions that I had finally had the time to form. Instead, it was just a voice over the phone and what felt like a generic consolation that they would try to get me in for an early scan if I did get pregnant again.

…it’s become a norm that such devastating news of a confirmed miscarriage is provided in such an impersonal way over a phone call.

Over that course of the time period that I miscarried, I received 2 letters from the NHS one for the Midwife and another for an obstetrician appointment for what would have been my first scan. I was beside myself that I would now have to face phoning these services to cancel these appointments and explain that I’d had a miscarriage.

I felt so let down and angry that within our healthcare system that it’s become a norm that such devastating news of a confirmed miscarriage is provided in such an impersonal way over a phone call.  That miscarriage is seen as being so common and routine, that you are provided with such generic empty words of consolidation and some leaflets in your hand. To then have to relive that loss in your time of grief when presented with letters for maternity and obstetrician appointments you now no longer need.

Our whole world changed the instant that we discovered our baby will not make it into our arms.  This loss carved a deep wound within me, presenting a challenge that I had never been prepared for. The emotional toll became an overshadowing cloud, casting doubt and despair over what should have been a time of excitement and hope. I found myself in a spiral of grief, trying to reconcile my desire to start a family with the heartbreak of this unfulfilled dream. The initial shock of the miscarriage was followed by a profound sense of isolation. As myself and my husband grieved and handled this experience very differently.

Small changes within healthcare practice….could have helped to relieve the additional pain caused by our miscarriage.

The loss experienced through miscarriage shouldn’t be minimised or medicalised.  Small changes within healthcare practice such as information at the right time and at minimum the opportunity for a face-to-face to receive the confirmation of the miscarriage, would have made us feel like our loss was acknowledged and that we were treated with due sensitivity, empathy and compassion.  Having a more efficient system of cancelling and preventing the provision midwife and obstetrician appointment letters after miscarriage or staff informing services users that letters may have already been mailed, however, no actions will be required from the service user as these will be automatically cancelled. All these steps, could have helped to relieve the additional pain caused by receiving these in the post after our miscarriage.

Mango is my fur baby. She is almost two years old. She is the most beautiful and sensitive wee soul and, as is typical of cocker spaniels, an adorable level of bonkers.

But then suddenly Mango’s vibes changed. She went off her food and started avoiding me

Shortly after my husband and I returned from holiday she was glued to me. She has always been uber cuddly, but this was a level above. Stuck to me like Velcro. A few weeks later I had a positive pregnancy test. Mango had known we had brought back more than just souvenirs from our holiday!

We had only been trying for a month, so we were excited but a little taken aback at how quickly things had moved. Everything seemed fine for the next six weeks. Sore boobs? Check. Almost constant nausea? Check. Craving for unusual food? Check (for me, it was Marmite!) We were all very much immersed in the pregnancy vibes.

But then suddenly Mango’s vibes changed. She went off her food and started avoiding me. If I sat down on the sofa, she jumped off. If my husband went out the room, she went too. She almost seemed relieved when he came home.

Shortly after, my vibes changed too. My nausea eased and something just felt different in myself. But I reassured myself that pregnancy is a period of perpetual change, and that I was moving toward the second trimester.

By this point, we had only told a handful of people on a need-to-know basis. We decided to go for a private scan at around 11 weeks, so we could make the big announcement to families. We had bought Mango a bandana which said ‘I’m going to be a big Sister June 2025’ so she could join in the announcement.

I went in ready and expecting to hear my baby’s heartbeat and see them wiggling… in hindsight I feel like such a naive idiot! Sadly, too many TWGGE members know what happens next and how it feels. The silence. The wavy indistinct image. The baby smaller than expected (9 weeks). “Sorry I can’t detect a heartbeat”. I hope it’s ok, but that’s a tale for another time. This is Mango’s story.

Absolutely distraught. we made our way home to Mango. As all dog owners know, coming through the front door is the best moment of their dog’s day and she was thrilled to see us… but she just couldn’t read the room. She proceeded to entertain us with the world’s most zoomiest zoomies, throwing her toys around and begging for attention, yapping at us to play with her, while I sobbed on the sofa.

She wasn’t aggressive, but she would follow my husband around. He was the focus of her attention and cuddles now

Over the next few days, she continued to avoid me. She wasn’t aggressive, but she would follow my husband around. He was the focus of her attention and cuddles now. Finally, we all knew what she already knew. There was something wrong. The baby she had sensed growing inside me had reached the end of its journey and she had sensed that too, and this change in my smell or hormones unsettled her. I had to accept her behaviour, even though I craved her puppy love more than ever.

Once in bed, she tucked her nose under the duvet near my tummy, but immediately pulled away like she couldn’t bear to be near my belly. My husband noticed this, and he could also see how distraught I was having no cuddles from my little therapy dog. So, when he wasn’t cuddling me, he spent the next few days sitting alone in the armchair, meaning that I was Mango’s only option for sofa cuddles.
Eventually, she relented and settled for my strokes and could obviously tell I was sad. Tentatively, she started to give me attention, sitting by my side while I made crafts, letting me hold her in my arms, licking my tears… mmmm tasty.

…while sobbing and being cradled by my husband I felt a little nose under my elbow. It was Mango.

The day came for my surgical management. Before we set off to the hospital, I sat on the sofa and decided to look at my baby’s scan photos for the first time. I wanted to look at them while I knew that they were still with me. It was so very hard, but while sobbing and being cradled by my husband I felt a little nose under my elbow. It was Mango. She wiggled herself in and placed her head right on my belly. We sat there for 15 minutes, the three of us saying goodbye to Papaya – the nickname for my baby in-utero, which has now stuck as their forever name. Mango knew this was the time to say goodbye to the wee playmate she never knew, but had sensed all along.

As I said, this is Mango’s story not mine, so I will save my journey through the NHS for another day, with a key highlight being serenading my anaesthetist as I was high on drugs, fear, and adrenaline. Anyway, once home it took Mango a while to trust me again. Even now, three months later, I still think she prefers my husband – maybe that’s just my self-loathing brain.

I will also remember my first solo dog walk with Mango after the procedure, when I let her off lead and she pegged it through a field… I sat in the path and cried until she came back looking quizzically at me! I no longer had the confidence with her I had before. Even the slightest set back or wrong behaviour and I freaked. We are getting there though, walk-by-walk, cuddle by cuddle. She is currently wrapped up in a blanket with me on the sofa while I type this, occasionally popping her snout on my keyboard in the hope of a piece of kibble.

I shall always treasure the image of Mango saying goodbye to Papaya.

Maybe she will be glued to me again soon, sensing a wee life inside me. Hopefully, this time, that little puppy sense will lead to a real-life best buddy for her to play with. Although that’s how I picture the future, I shall always treasure the image of Mango saying goodbye to Papaya.
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Ps. I wanted to share Mango’s story, rather than my own, because it’s easier. It lets me keep my emotions slightly at bay. It’s how I deal with the awkward conversations… ‘How are you?’ ‘Oh well I’m not really ok, but let me tell you how Mango is…’ Also, she is so cute I can’t get mad, angry or overwhelmed with her like I do with myself. I hope her story might bring you some healing, a small smile, or even validation if you experienced similar things with your pets. Lots of love to whoever is reading this. You are not alone; Mango sends puppy licks.

My grief felt different to theirs, I felt like I was too ‘ok’ and to some extent still do.

Eight weeks. That is how long it has been since I gave birth to my baby boy Charlie who was stillborn at 35 weeks. In this time, I have scoured the internet and social media for other people who are going through what I am. One part of me hoped that there wasn’t anybody as it meant nobody else had been through this horrific experience, but the other part hoped there would be someone who somewhat understood me.

It was very bittersweet when I found so many online communities for baby loss. There was a lot of women who had come together to share their journeys and grief. But after reading through, I still felt like I didn’t fit in. My grief felt different to theirs, I felt like I was too ‘ok’ and to some extent still do. I found a lot of people were still struggling with their loss or losses months or years later, whilst others were on a focused journey to get pregnant again as quick as possible. I was neither of these, and I’m hoping by sharing my story I can give a different perspective and help someone else feel less alone. Losing a baby is the most lonely and isolating experience I have ever been through, so when I then felt I didn’t fit into the group that I should, everything stung just that little bit more.

I’ll start my story at the beginning of my journey to motherhood. In August 2022 my daughter was born after what I would call a simple and easy pregnancy. It had taken us almost a year to fall pregnant, which felt like forever at the time. Like most people, I thought you got pregnant, passed the 12-week mark and came home with your baby. This experience just solidified these thoughts. So, when I fell pregnant again in May 2024, I was ecstatic, and once we passed the 12-week mark I was excited to share the news with all of our family and friends. Again, I had what I would call an easy pregnancy. We found out we were having a boy and were overjoyed that we would have one of each. We couldn’t agree on any names but other than this everything was great. Until it wasn’t.

I heard the words nobody wants to hear “I’m sorry but I can’t find your babies heartbeat.”

On the 1st of January I went to bed, slightly concerned that I hadn’t felt my baby boy move that evening. But as I got into bed, I felt his body move and his bum stick out, a usual position for him so I wrongly assumed everything was ok. I now know it was just his body moving as I moved. The following morning, when I was bang on 35 weeks I awoke after having a very vivid dream. In this dream I had been wording out text messages to family, friend and work colleagues telling them we had lost our baby. I still hadn’t felt any actual kicks at this point, and in my gut I just knew. I knew our boy was gone but I didn’t want to believe it. I told my husband I needed to go get checked out so off I went to the hospital alone. In a strange way I thought if I went alone, what I was feeling wouldn’t be true and my baby would be fine. But when I got there, I heard the words nobody wants to hear “I’m sorry but I can’t find your babies heartbeat.” In this moment my whole world came crashing down. I was ushered into a side room where a scan confirmed our baby had died, and the midwife called my husband to come and be with me. After being given a lot of information and booklets to read we went home for two days before I went back into the hospital to be induced.

Being in the hospital and going through labour was the most surreal experience. I can’t accurately put into words how I feel about it. I wanted to feel everything, and did most of it without pain relief, only really using it for the last couple of hours. It was the most horrendous yet amazing experience, and it was a privilege to be able to bring my boy into the world that way.
He was born on the 5th of January at 08.48am and weighed 5lb 7oz. We swiftly decided on the name Charlie for him, one of the only names we’d both liked.

These first few hours I held him like any new mum would hold their newborn…

I look back on it now as a time we shared together, another memory to hold on to. I don’t want to dwell too much on my labour, for as I say it was an amazing experience, however there were a few complications that tar it a bit. I had a nasty infection and had to have my placenta removed in theatre almost 6 hours after he was born. Everybody apologised that it took so long for me to go down to theatre, but I am thankful that it did. I got to spend the most precious time with Charlie after he was born whilst he was soft, warm and looked like he was sleeping. I’d have missed out on some of this time had there not been that wait. These first few hours I held him like any new mum would hold their newborn and showed him off to my mum and mother-in-law. We were all in awe of how perfect he was.

Before I move on to afterwards, I just want to touch on the care I received during my pregnancy and birth. I have nothing but positive words for everyone involved. I have found in my journey since having Charlie the majority of people feel they have been failed by the health care system and the people involved in their care. My community midwife has seen me through both pregnancies and has been nothing short of amazing. I was booked in on time for all my antenatal appointments, and was always told if I had any worries or wanted to be seen more often to just let her know and she’d fit me in. If I ever had any concerns my texts were answered promptly, and I was seen within the next day or two when needed. I always felt she truly cared about the care she gave and has continued to give since Charlie was born. I will always be grateful for the care she has shown and it gives me faith should we go on to have any more children that me and my baby will be well looked after. The midwives in the hospital also all treated me with care and respect. I was treated like any other new mum, and they all greeted my baby like any other newborn, commenting on how beautiful he was. I will forever be indebted to everyone involved in my care for making the worst time in my life slightly more bearable. People say thank you, but I often wonder if midwives truly understand the positive impact they have on the lives of people like me.

It made me wonder; did I love my baby enough? I now know I did and still do. I love him with everything I have.

I mentioned at the start that I felt like I didn’t fit into the baby loss community due to how I was in the days and weeks after Charlie died. Everyone I spoke to seemed consumed with grief or focused on another baby. I was neither of these. In the first few days after Charlie was born I was incredibly sad and lost, I didn’t want to do anything or get out of bed, but I did. I managed to function, get out of the house and make myself eat. I went for a walk every day and still do. The fact that I was doing this made me feel guilty that I wasn’t ‘sad’ enough. Not like the other mums I had spoken to and read about who spend days holed up inside their house avoiding everyone. It made me wonder; did I love my baby enough? I now know I did and still do. I love him with everything I have.

Whilst I might not be dealing with it the same as other people, that my way isn’t wrong either. I’m not broken.

After the first few days had passed from him being born, the crying lessened, and after about 2 weeks I was able to have happy moments and laugh again. I’d feel happy then guilty that I’d been able to smile when my baby was dead. Other people were telling me months down the line they were still overcome with sadness every day. I felt like I was broken. I wasn’t acting like I should be. I was able to openly speak about Charlie, his life and death from the off without shedding a tear. Again, others were telling me they couldn’t even speak their babies name for months without welling up.

I have only recently come to accept that we all grieve differently, and whilst I might not be dealing with it the same as other people, that my way isn’t wrong either. I’m not broken. I love my baby. I know Charlie wouldn’t want me to be locked in the house, overwhelmed with sadness every day. He would want me to be positive, enjoying nature and treasuring the short time we had together.