Gemma’s story: my missed miscarriage
Gemma has experienced four pregnancy losses. In her story, she shares the story of her fourth loss, Lumi, and navigating grief.
The truth is, I don’t know what the future holds. I wish I did. But right now, all I can do is try to put one foot in front of the other—and hope that somehow, eventually, I’ll find my way through this.
I’ll never know why this happened—but what I’m learning is that grief and love can live side by side, and somehow, I have to find a way to trust my body again.
I saw those two pink lines, and instantly, I let myself hope. My mind ran straight to birthdays, Christmas mornings, muddy dog walks, little hands holding mine at the seaside. I saw the whole future so clearly, so easily.
Because I pushed for progesterone support, they booked me in early—not because of my history, but to check the baby was in the right place. I lay there, barely breathing, just willing everything to be okay.
They found the gestational sac, the yolk sac—and maybe a slight thickening where a fetal pole might form—but nothing more. “It’s early,” they said. “Come back in two weeks.”
Those two weeks were unbearable. I clung to every symptom—every wave of nausea, every twinge—desperate to believe it meant Lumi was still growing. And despite the fear, I allowed myself to imagine it all, because what else could I do but hope?
When we went back, I heard the words I’d been dreading. There was some growth—but not enough. No heartbeat. No miracle. Just more waiting. More “uncertain viability” hanging in the air while my heart quietly broke.
They sent me home—to wait. And I found myself stuck in that awful place between being pregnant and not. Somewhere between hope and despair. Deep down, I knew what was coming—but I couldn’t stop reading the stories of women who went back and found a heartbeat. For a moment, I let myself believe—what if that’s me?
But it wasn’t.
I chose surgery because I needed the best chance of getting answers. I needed to know we’d done everything we could. I couldn’t bear the thought of my body breaking down at home—I needed it to be controlled, clinical, final.
I remember lying there for that final scan, unable to open my eyes, unable even to stare at the ceiling vent like I had before. I just couldn’t face it. Because I already knew.
There was no heartbeat. No miracle.
Surgery was quiet, cold, and final. I woke up in recovery, and the first words that came out were—“My baby has gone.” The nurse was so kind. I don’t remember much else, except how gently she spoke, how she stayed beside me while the weight of it all hit.
Hopefully, answers will come. But right now, I’m carrying the weight of my fourth loss—and it’s heavy. I’m struggling to get through each day, struggling to make sense of any of it.
I keep trying to believe my body didn’t fail me—that maybe it was protecting me. That maybe, somehow, even this was love.
The truth is, I don’t know what the future holds. I wish I did. But right now, all I can do is try to put one foot in front of the other—and hope that somehow, eventually, I’ll find my way through this.
