Gone Too Soon

Disclaimer: I wrote this on 19 December 2025. I was still distraught, but I needed to write about how I was feeling. I could have written it better, but I was emotional and needed an outlet. I may write another journal entry one day about the emotional aftermath. This story, however, is about what happened—the days that led to my miscarriage.

15 December

The 15th of December was the day of our first ultrasound at Taupo Medical Centre. I was almost thirteen weeks pregnant. We were so excited! We were finally going to hear our baby’s heartbeat.

The technician began the scan, moving the probe across my belly. Minutes passed. She kept looking. Then she said she couldn’t find the heartbeat. Calmly, she explained that sometimes this happens if the pregnancy is earlier than expected and asked me to empty my bladder so we could do a transvaginal scan.

I did as she asked, still holding onto hope.

But even with the internal scan, she couldn’t find anything. She continued taking measurements and images without saying much. Finally, she told us that the gestational sac was measuring closer to six weeks—not twelve or thirteen. She asked me to get dressed and said we would need to wait for my midwife to call and explain the report once it was finished.

As we walked out of the building and back to our car, something inside me broke. I started crying before we even reached the door. By the time we were driving home, I was inconsolable. I knew—deep down—that our baby was gone.

Later that day, my midwife called. She told me she was sorry and explained that the fetus was not viable and that there was a possibility I was experiencing a partial molar pregnancy. I didn’t fully understand what that meant, so I did what so many of us do—I started googling, spiraling deeper into fear and confusion.

She said she would meet us in person in twenty minutes, so we drove back into town. She explained that this condition is rare but does happen. Still, it didn’t make it hurt any less. We were heartbroken. I couldn’t even begin to articulate how I felt.

Guilt crept in quickly. Shame followed. I blamed myself. Maybe my body had failed. Maybe I wasn’t a good mum. I replayed the last few weeks over and over in my head, scrutinizing every choice, every movement, every moment—trying to find the point where my body stopped being a safe place for my baby.

My midwife told us an obstetrician would call the next day to talk through the next steps, including a possible curtterage or evacuation to remove the remaining tissue in my uterus.

That night, we went home and cried until we fell asleep. I don’t remember stopping. I think I just cried myself into exhaustion.

16 December

The OB called in the morning and scheduled a dilation and evacuation procedure for that afternoon at Rotorua Hospital. John was working in Tokanu that morning and had to drive back first, then we headed to Rotorua together.

At the hospital, they took blood samples and prepared me for surgery. I had my IV in and was ready to go when the doctors came back with new information. My hCG levels were relatively low—around 18,000—and after reviewing my scans, several doctors were unsure whether the pregnancy was molar after all.

The fetus was still not viable, but to determine the safest and most appropriate procedure, they recommended waiting until Monday for another blood test and a repeat transvaginal scan.

We agreed. Once again, we drove home to Taupo—uncertain, suspended in limbo, carrying grief without answers.

18 December

I woke up to fresh, bright red blood.

I knew then that I was miscarrying.

I put on a pad and called my midwife. She advised us to go straight to Emergency at Taupo Hospital rather than wait for the bleeding to worsen. John was working in Whakamaru that day and had to drive back to Taupo. By then, I was experiencing cramps similar to a heavy period, along with lower back pain.

We arrived at Emergency around midday. Another blood test showed my hCG had dropped to 16,000. Because I hadn’t soaked through a pad yet, we were eventually sent home and told to return if the bleeding became heavier.

At home, we ate a late lunch. Not long after, the pain intensified. The cramps became stronger, sharper—coming in waves that left me breathless. The bleeding increased. Over the course of an hour and a half, I soaked through three pads. The pain became unbearable. I screamed. I collapsed on the floor, writhing and crying, completely overwhelmed by what my body was doing to me.

It was the worst pain I have ever felt.

John didn’t know what to do. He called Emergency, and they told us to come back immediately.

By the time we arrived at the hospital, the pain had eased slightly. As I went to change my pad, I felt something leave my body. When I looked down, I saw it—the fetus, the sac, everything.

I broke.

All I felt was grief and pity for our unborn child. So tiny. So delicate. So vulnerable. I couldn’t look. I couldn’t hold it. John gently took the bundle away as I crumpled under the weight of what was happening.

The nurses and doctors were incredible. I lost count of how many times they told us how sorry they were. They explained that they couldn’t allow us to take our baby home, as the tissue needed to be sent to the lab for analysis so we could understand what had happened.

I stayed in the hospital for several more hours to ensure the bleeding didn’t become excessive. Once again, we were told to return if it worsened. We were also advised to continue with blood tests and a scan on Monday to check if any tissue remained in my uterus.

That night, we went home quieter than we had ever been. The house felt too still, as if it knew something was missing. My body was exhausted, emptied in ways I didn’t yet understand, and my heart felt even more bruised.

This experience has changed me. It has reshaped how I understand motherhood, grief, and love. I carried my baby for a short time, but the love was instant and real. Even now, I hold space for the life that was—however brief—and for the version of myself that believed, hoped, and dreamed without knowing how fragile it all was.

This story doesn’t end with resolution or wisdom. Some stories don’t. It ends with loss, with unanswered questions, and with an enduring love that doesn’t disappear just because a heartbeat does.