On the first day of February, I had a fresh A grade embryo transferred into my uterus. I took a pregnancy test earlier than I was meant to: eight days after my transfer. Two lines appeared. I was pregnant! I held on to those two lines for a couple of days before I worked up the courage to get my bloods taken to confirm the pregnancy and my hCG (human chorionic gonadotropin) levels.

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I was nervous: worried that the pregnancy test had been a false positive, that I wasn’t really pregnant, that I had got my hopes up for nothing. When the blood test came back positive and my hCG levels confirmed it, I was so bloody excited. But still, the nerves remained.

There’s a level of fear with every pregnancy, but after a loss, that fear is heightened. It is ever-present. No amount of excitement or joy or preparation can ease it. Trust me, I’ve tried.

Two weeks after having my pregnancy confirmed, I started intralipid treatment to help boost my immunity and fight off any bad cells that might want to attack the embryo. The procedure involved a fat emulsion being administered intravenously. It’s often recommended for women with a history of early pregnancy loss and recurrent miscarriages.

I was doing everything humanly possible to give my pregnancy the best chance. As well as the intralipid, I was inserting progesterone (the pregnancy hormone) – sometimes vaginally (if you know you know; not the most pleasant experience) and sometimes rectally – taking CoQ10 and prenatal vitamins, doing acupuncture, meditating daily and crossing every bone in my body.

The bleeding started at 1am. In the early hours of February 26, I called Paul (who was working as a DJ overseas) in tears. My body went into shock, and I started shaking and vomiting. I never vomit, so that was a big deal. I secretly hoped it was morning sickness, but it felt different. My fear had become terror. Not again, not again, not again, I prayed. When the sun rose, I booked in for an ultrasound with my fertility specialist, Dr Kee Ong. I cried the whole drive to the clinic. Inside, to my complete amazement, we saw a little heartbeat. The bleeding eased, but the terror remained.

A scan the following week showed that the baby’s heartbeat was still going strong. We also saw two sacs, which meant my pregnancy had been twins at one point, but only one baby remained alive. I didn’t register the loss at the time; I was too focused on the little heartbeat inside me. I was still pregnant. That was all that mattered.

As the days wore on, the death toll climbed; the loss was immeasurable. It was a heartbreaking time for everyone.

CHLOE FISHER

The rain started, and it didn’t stop. At the end of February 2022, south-east Queensland was hit by one of the country’s worst recorded flood disasters. The rain fell and the rivers rose. Roads went under, homes were lost, people were evacuated, supermarket shelves were emptied, and non-essential travel was restricted.

The region was devastated, and I was helpless. I was on bed rest, at Dr Ong’s recommendation. I watched the news from bed in our house overlooking Palm Beach. Thankfully, Paul was back in Australia, and he and a group of his friends were out delivering essential items, rescuing people and animals in dinghies. As the days wore on, the death toll climbed; the loss was immeasurable. It was a heartbreaking time for everyone.

As the floodwaters began to recede, we were hit with more heartbreak. On Wednesday, March 9, Paul and I went into the clinic for our eight-week ultrasound. My bleeding had stopped and I was feeling pretty unwell, which I took as a good sign. Eight weeks was the furthest I’d got in a pregnancy. My first and second losses happened at around seven weeks. Because I’d made it further this time, I felt quite confident going into the scan.

That confidence faded as Dr Ong’s face slowly dropped. After a few minutes, he said, “I’m sorry, I can’t find a heartbeat.”

“No, no, no,” I said to Paul. “Please no. Not again.”

Dr Ong sent me for a second ultrasound. I held onto a tiny bit of hope. Maybe there was something wrong with Dr Ong’s machine, I thought. I prayed. I willed.

The waiting room at the second ultrasound appointment was full of visibly pregnant women. They were all admiring their sonogram pictures and subconsciously rubbing their bellies. It felt cruel. I desperately wanted to get out of that room, away from the bumps.

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I was crying and shaking when we were finally called into the ultrasound scan. I tried to breathe through the sobs. When the screen beside me lit up, the scan showed our tiny twins right up close to each other. Seeing the babies together was so special. It was the most beautiful image, but the sound didn’t match. There was no heartbeat. They were both gone.

Paul was devastated. I was confused. Why does this keep happening? I didn’t understand.

Later that day, Dr Ong tried to give us some answers. We found out that the babies had been sharing a placenta, so the loss of the first one created a toxic environment for the second one. “I know you’re sick of being told you’re just unlucky, but this was totally out of your control,” Dr Ong explained.

On the drive home, every inch of my body ached. I don’t know how my heart kept beating when it was so broken. I went home and wrote in my diary, “We have now suffered three miscarriages and lost four babies. No words.”

I know I shouldn’t have, but I felt like a failure. I felt like I had let Paul down. Again. I felt like the losses were my fault, like there was something wrong with me. Dr Ong had explicitly told me that wasn’t the case, but I couldn’t help feeling responsible. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” I kept saying to Paul, who told me I had nothing to apologise for.

The whole thing hit Paul hard. He was meant to play two overseas shows that weekend, but he cancelled them to be with me. He wanted to post a personal message on Instagram apologising to his fans, and he told me he would say the cancellation was due to an urgent family matter. “Tell the truth,” I encouraged him. “We need to talk about this. We need to acknowledge our babies.”

On March 10, Paul shared that we had experienced another miscarriage. “I need to stay home to be there and support [my wife] right now while we go through this heartbreaking incident.” The response was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Both Paul and I were showered with love and support, from strangers and friends alike. I had more than 6000 people DM me. I was speechless.

I still don’t have the words to explain how grateful I am for all of those messages and the sheer kindness we were shown.

Edited extract from Always You (Hachette) by Chloe Fisher out October 28.

For miscarriage, stillbirth & newborn death support, call 1300 308 307.

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