A Journey Through Loss and Grief
I have always wanted to be a mother. If you ask my husband, he’ll tell you otherwise, but that’s a story for another day. Starting a family was always on my radar, and after many hours spent in my introvert wonderland, wondering what was missing, the penny finally dropped. I wanted to give myself something more meaningful than any travel destination or corporate job title. I wanted to love, nurture and raise another human being.
The road to that dream wasn’t easy, but we got there eventually, and I gave birth to the love of my life, a son. However, as challenging as that first chapter was, it turned out to be a mere walk in the park compared to the path that lay ahead.
Fast-forward four years and I have experienced more loss than I ever thought possible. Four pregnancy losses, one failed embryo transfer, and two failed IVF rounds. Seven distinct deaths over two years — all while working, parenting and fighting to keep my relationships and sanity afloat.
For years prior, I lived with horrendous pelvic pain, always suspecting pregnancy would be a challenge. But nothing could have prepared me for the reality an endometriosis diagnosis would soon bring. I remember waking up in that hospital bed, groggy and sore from my first excision surgery. The diagnosis was official: Stage 2, widespread endometriosis. The surgeon told me they “got what they could.” For a short while, I felt relief and validation — a relief that the physical and emotional toll on my body wasn’t just in my head.
I was convinced the surgery would fix the pain and that I’d surely be one of the lucky ones who would conceive within three to six months, just like the statistics promised. But the surgery didn’t stop the pain; the contraceptive pill wasn’t a viable option, and eighteen months later, the hope had shifted. My husband and I found ourselves sitting in an IVF clinic, listening to a fertility specialist assure us that we’d “get our two babies.”
Two years after our son’s birth, we started gearing up to transfer our only frozen embryo, but I couldn’t shake the feeling there were other issues at play. An MRI confirmed adenomyosis — similar to endometriosis, but within the uterine wall. This diagnosis felt different. I felt winded and hopeless, like I was running out of time.
Following the advice of my fertility specialist, I commenced a down-regulation protocol to calm uterine inflammation (medically induced menopause) and create the best possible environment for the embryo. Two weeks later, my period arrived and so, with a heavy heart, I climbed aboard the IVF train once again.
Loss number one arrived on the first day of my new job. I was already navigating the vulnerability of re-entering the workforce after spending two years raising my son. We had just endured a “Big Fat Nothing” IVF round — all those needles, medications, and invasive retrievals resulting in zero embryos. When I saw two lines on a home test four weeks later, I was certain the universe was finally giving us a happy ending. I was wrong. The joy lasted only moments before the cramping and pink blood had me questioning, “Was it ever real?”
Loss number two followed just eight weeks later. I told myself lightning wouldn’t strike twice. It did. The universe delivered a positive test on the day of my sister-in-law’s bridal shower; three days later, the familiar bright pink blood returned.
Loss number three came a year later. After the wreckage of failed cycles and miscarriages, we took a break. For the first time in months, we were just a “normal” family on holiday, living life. By some miracle, I came home to find myself pregnant (again). But we know how this story ends: the familiar spotting, the heavy flow, a resounding emptiness.
The same scenario kept repeating — the lines would appear. Then the bleeding would begin. Image: Canva.
The holiday calm washed away, just like my baby.
Loss number four arrived in December of last year. The odds were abysmal: three eggs retrieved, a brutal attrition rate. Yet, against the statistics, we got one beautiful embryo. I tested early — eight days post-transfer (the earliest you can test; I checked with the specialist, of course). There it was: a faint line, a “squinter”. Three days later, the clots and cramps returned. I sat in despair, wondering what I had done to deserve a fourth repeat of the same tragedy.
Desperate for a second miracle, I started another round just twelve weeks later. I had a new specialist and a new protocol. When the embryologist called on Day 3, they spoke of “fragmentation” — a clinical word for cells failing to divide. By Day 5, the embryos had slowed to a crawl. On the final morning, Day 6, the call came: the cells had begun the process of “decomposition.” I would have no embryos for transfer.
Decomposition, those words broke me. If my embryos followed the same biological process of death as a human being, why was their passing unacknowledged? Why would there be no condolences, no sermons, no burials? Why was I expected to wake up to a miscarriage and go to work the same day? After all, how many times can you call in sick for a miscarriage?
For years, I pushed through grief. I showed up to weekend barbeques, weddings, and birthdays pretending I wasn’t living through “miscarriage Groundhog Day.” Because my losses couldn’t be seen on an ultrasound or proven with a heartbeat, I paused my pain. I hoped to feel those emotions at a more “convenient” time — a time when my son wasn’t home so I could howl like a wounded animal, or when my husband was out so I could drop the veil of anger and reveal my true despair. I minimised my pain because others had experienced more losses, more IVF, tried even longer, and still had empty arms. I felt weak. At least I was already a mother, I told myself.
I am at the end of my IVF road now, and it has felt like the death of a dream: a sibling for our son and the completion of our family. It’s been four weeks since grief began to suffocate me. I have only just started to lean into what grief has to teach me, but here is what I know so far: I am learning to live while bearing this heaviness. I’ve learnt that grief is never convenient, that tears will often start streaming at the “wrong” time. It is no longer my job to mask my pain to make those around me feel comfortable.
Grief has forever changed me, but I finally see that my healing is more important than anything else right now.
Recently, I took the first step towards healing. I spoke to a grief and loss counsellor about my babies. I refuse to call them “chemical pregnancies” anymore — a clinical term which minimises the magnitude of early pregnancy loss. Although unseen, they were real. I hope to reach the “other side” one day, but for now I will take time to grieve and honour the babies I loved so dearly.
If you or anyone you know would like to speak with an expert about pregnancy loss, please contact the SANDS Australia 24-Hour Support Line (1300 072 637).
