Emma’s story
In the summer of 2024, after six cycles of trying, we got our first positive test. We were over the moon, excited about the journey to come. Unfortunately, shortly after, I began to bleed heavily at home – a miscarriage. We were heartbroken but knew we wanted to try again and didn’t want to wait. Each month that passed, each period that began, hurt more and more every time.
Fast forward to June 2025, a positive test. I can’t explain how many mixed emotions I felt seeing those two lines. I was immediately excited, but then my mind flashed back to almost a year previous, and anxiety filled my whole body. I tried my best to push this unwanted anxiety to the side, but it was near impossible. I had early reassurance scans at 6 weeks and 9 weeks, each time preparing myself for bad news, but it never came. Then it was our NHS 12-week dating scan. Everything was perfect, and we left the hospital feeling like the luckiest people in the world. We were having our baby.
We announced online to our friends, family and wider circle at nearly 14 weeks. We had told our close circle before 12 weeks. The weeks following this were some of the best of my life; we began planning our future, we were on holiday, and we began to shop for baby. My partner and I did not want to know the gender, so we didn’t book any more private scans. My bump was growing, and I had felt slight flutters, so for all we knew, our baby was growing as it should be. On the 8th October, we went for our NHS 20-week anomaly scan. This scan is when our world was turned upside down.
Going into the scan, I was nervous, but my partner reassured me it was going to be okay and that it was just another opportunity to see our baby on the screen. We went into the scan, and straight away we were told, “There’s the heartbeat,” and a wave of relief rushed over me. I guess that was my biggest worry going into the scan: no heartbeat. But less than ten minutes later, we were sat in another room, alone, waiting for a doctor to come and see us. I knew then the heartbeat was the least of my worries; there was a bigger issue. I messaged my mum saying, “Something’s wrong,” because we had no other information at this point. Two hours later, we were finally seen and told we had been referred to a Fetal Medicine Unit in Leeds. All we knew at this point was that baby had a problem with its bladder/kidneys and had no amniotic fluid; we didn’t know the severity.
Two days after our 20-week appointment, we were in Leeds. I went into the room, my mum and partner following, and four members from the Fetal Medicine team were in there. I lay on the bed, trying to tell myself that everything was going to be okay. We saw our baby on the screen again – they had the most perfect little nose, and we got to hear their heartbeat. As they continued the scan, I honestly didn’t know what we were looking at on the screen; it looked like a big black hole. Thirty minutes later, they had finished. Nothing could have prepared me for what was said next: “I’m really sorry, your baby is not going to survive.” I broke down immediately, sobbing into my mum as she tried to comfort my partner and me.
Our baby was diagnosed with LUTO – lower urinary tract obstruction. A blockage in the tract meant that the bladder could not empty, which led to baby having no amniotic fluid, severe kidney damage, and lungs that would not develop. There was nothing they could do, no chance of survival. We had to decide if I wanted to carry to term, knowing our baby would die either in the womb, during birth, shortly after birth, or we could choose to TFMR. What kind of choice is this? I knew straight away what we had to do; I could not let my baby suffer inside of me. It was a decision made with the most love, but the biggest heartbreak for us as parents.
The days after the diagnosis were a blur. I was numb, and I had cried so many tears that there were none left. I spent the next week trying to prepare myself for what was to come. I had placenta previa, with my placenta completely covering my cervix, which was a concern to the medical team. When I went into the hospital to take the dose of mifepristone to stop my hormones (ironically, on October 15th – Baby Loss Awareness Day), they took blood so they could match it in case of a blood transfusion. I was petrified.
On Friday, 17th October, two days later, I was admitted into hospital to start the induction process. We were given our own suite — the Little Footprint Suite. As much as this was about to be the worst time of our lives, the midwives made us feel as much at ease as possible. A couple of hours after arriving, I was given the first round of medication, which would then be given every four hours for a total of five tablets. After the second dose, I began cramping. It came on so fast. The midwife gave me codeine, but it didn’t touch the sides; it was excruciating. As the cramps got worse, I was given gas and air and a pethidine injection to help with the pain. After seven hours of what we thought was labour, a lot of pain and heavy bleeding, everything sort of just stopped. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why. All I knew was my baby would not be arriving anytime soon. My body had failed me once and was failing me again.
Finally, at 19:07 on Monday, 20th October, after four days of labour, our precious baby entered the world, weighing 410 grams. My first question was, “Boy or girl?” They couldn’t tell us. Our poor baby was so sick that they couldn’t even determine the gender. I was heartbroken. But I had no time to think about this, I was taken straight to the theatre for a retained placenta and blood loss.
Fast-forward a few hours, and we got to spend precious time with our baby. The cuddles we had as a family will be a memory I will forever cherish. They were at peace now, and I knew in that moment I’d made the right decision. Our midwife, Beth (who was so kind and compassionate with us), took handprints, footprints and photos of our sweet angel. Although difficult, I look at these every night, and they bring me some form of comfort.
I had to spend the next couple of days in the hospital and received two blood transfusions due to severe haemorrhage during labour and losing 1.9 litres of blood. Leaving the hospital without our baby was one of the hardest parts. I was in tears; it shouldn’t have ended like this. I went home and cried, I sat in the bath and cried, I lay in bed and cried. This was it – my baby was gone, and I was empty. The weeks that followed were deeply painful. I was not in a good place. I was lucky to have a small but amazing support system in place, people I loved and trusted with my life. If it wasn’t for these people, I would have let the darkness and grief take over.
Four weeks later, we had the most perfect funeral for our little bean with our nearest and dearest. There were many tears; it was the last goodbye before they left us to be with the angels. But it was a beautiful goodbye, and I’m so happy we did it. We had the songs “For Good” from the musical Wicked and “Something in the Heavens” by Lewis Capaldi. Our boy was cremated, and he is now at home with us, where he belongs.
We got our genetic results 7 weeks after our baby’s birth. We found out he was a boy, and we named him Otis.
Life now is different. It feels empty and meaningless without Otis. Some days are still dark, but I know I have to carry on. I have to do it for myself, my partner, Otis, and the family we want. I am under the care of a local charity who offer support and counselling for baby loss. They have been amazing and made me feel less alone. I have never had to deal with grief and loss at this level, and they reassure me that what I’m feeling is okay. I know I’ll never be the Emma everyone knew as outgoing, confident and smiley, how could I be? I miss who I was before, but I’m sure I will learn to love the new me over time.
I send my deepest love to anyone going through the process of TFMR. I didn’t think I could do it, but I did, and you will too. Every day is still a battle, every day I still cry, and every day is another reminder that they are not with us. But I’ve made it through every day and will continue to do so for our darling son.