On the 30th of March, me and my partner went for an early pregnancy scan, filled with hope and excitement. There was no reason to believe anything was wrong. However, the scan revealed a missed miscarriage, a term I had never heard before but one that would soon become all too familiar.

I felt a profound sense of loss, not just for the baby… but for the normal pregnancy experience that was taken from us.

Just two days later, on the 1st of April, I underwent a D&C (dilation and curettage) procedure. The days that followed were a blur of physical recovery and emotional turmoil. I clung to the hope that the worst was behind me, but the results I received on the 23rd of April shattered that hope. The diagnosis was a complete molar pregnancy.

A molar pregnancy is a rare complication where abnormal cells grow inside the uterus after fertilisation. Instead of a healthy embryo, my body had developed a mass of cysts. The news was devastating. I felt a profound sense of loss, not just for the baby we had hoped for, but for the normal pregnancy experience that was taken from us.

The journey didn’t end with the diagnosis. I learned that I would need to be monitored closely by Charing Cross Hospital to ensure my HCG levels, the hormone associated with pregnancy, returned to normal. This meant regular blood tests and the constant reminder of what had happened. Each test brought a wave of anxiety, as I feared what the results might show.

This experience has been the worst thing I have ever been through in my whole life. The physical pain was one thing, but the emotional and psychological impact was far greater. I felt isolated, as if no one could truly understand the depth of my grief and fear.

My journey is not over, but I am taking it one day at a time.”

Yet, through this ordeal, I have found strength I didn’t know I had. I have learned to lean on my support system, to accept help and kindness from others. I have also discovered the importance of self-care and allowing myself to grieve.

My journey is not over, but I am taking it one day at a time. I am hopeful that my HCG levels will return to normal and that I will eventually heal from this experience. Sharing our story is a step towards that healing, and I hope it can offer some comfort to others who may be going through similar experiences.

Written by Hollie Gibbons

Further Support and Stories

If you’re going through a molar pregnancy or have experienced one in the past, please know that you are not alone. We’ve shared more stories like mine on The Worst Girl Gang Ever podcast, where brave guests open up about their experiences with molar and partial molar pregnancies, recurrent miscarriage, and the emotional aftermath that follows.

You might find comfort in these episodes:

• 🎧 S1, E8 – Hannah: Molar Pregnancy

• 🎧 S1, E5 – Laura: Recurrent Miscarriage, Molar & Ectopic Pregnancy

• 🎧 S4, E4 – Ash: Recurrent Miscarriage and Partial Molar Pregnancy

You can also read a moving personal account in our blog:
📝 My Complete Molar Pregnancy Journey

💬 Join Our Weekly Drop-In Session
Every Friday from 12–1pm BST, we host a free, informal drop-in space for anyone affected by baby loss or fertility struggles. It’s a safe, supportive place to talk, listen, or just be.
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You are not alone in this.

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