My fertility journey: miscarriage to molar
In November 2020, I saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test—and for the first time in years, I allowed myself to believe. After eight miscarriages, each one carving out a piece of me, this felt like the moment I’d been waiting for. I was already under the care of fertility specialists, navigating the exhausting maze of tests, scans, and consultations. But at that very appointment, the consultant told me I no longer qualified for NHS fertility support. Why? Because I had become “spontaneously pregnant.” The irony was cruel. My egg had no genetic makeup. The pregnancy wasn’t viable. But the system saw a positive test and closed the door.
I went for an early scan, alone—thanks to COVID restrictions. I sat in a small, sterile room with two doctors who didn’t know me, didn’t know my history, and didn’t know how to soften the blow. They told me the sac was empty. Not only was the pregnancy not viable, but the cells were abnormal. It wasn’t just a miscarriage. It was a molar pregnancy—a rare form of gestational trophoblastic disease. A type of cancer. I remember the silence in that room. I remember the way the words hung in the air, heavy and surreal. I remember thinking, How can something that started with hope end in cancer?
On Christmas Eve, I was admitted to Winchester Hospital for a D&C. I walked into that hospital with a heart full of grief and walked out with a body that felt hollow. I thought that was the end of it. But in February 2021, my hCG levels—those pregnancy hormones—started to rise again. I wasn’t pregnant. The cells had reproduced. My molar pregnancy had become persistent GTD, or gestational trophoblastic neoplasia. I was admitted to Charing Cross Hospital immediately and started chemotherapy that same day. Alone again. COVID still kept loved ones at bay.
Each chemo session was a blur of fear, nausea, and sterile corridors. I was terrified—not just of the treatment, but of what it might mean. Would I need a hysterectomy? Would I ever be a mum? Would my body ever forgive me?
Here’s what I learned: GTD is rare, but not unheard of. And I wasn’t alone.
Complete molar pregnancy - diagnosed in 1 in 1,000 pregnancies, 15% requiring chemotherapy
Partial molar pregnancy - diagnosed in 3 in 1,000 pregnancies, 1% requiring chemotherapy
All GTD forms - 1,800 diagnoses per year in the UK
More than 95% of cases are successfully treated. But statistics don’t comfort you when you’re lying in a hospital bed wondering if your dream of motherhood is slipping away.
After chemo, I was told I couldn’t try for a baby for at least a year. That year was long. Every month felt like a countdown. I was referred back to fertility services for miscarriage investigations—something that had never been done properly despite my eight previous losses. But the system failed me again. My referral was lost. Paperwork wasn’t sent. Appointments were forgotten. I waited two years to get any answers.
When I finally had a hysteroscopy and laparoscopy with dye, they discovered my left fallopian tube was blocked. I had endometriosis. They cleared the tube during the procedure, and for the first time, I felt like someone had actually seen me. Like someone had finally looked beyond the surface and found the reasons behind my pain.
All of these results were handed to my fertility consultant. I was hopeful. I had a plan. I had answers. I had a day marked in my calendar—the day we would decide how to make my pregnancy happen.
But that day didn’t go as planned.
I sat in the consultation room, heart pounding, ready to talk IVF. Ready to talk options. Instead, I was told I was now outside the NHS age bracket for treatment. Despite my history. Despite my referral starting two years earlier. Despite everything. I felt like the rug had been pulled out from under me. Again. I had just bought a house. I didn’t have the money for private IVF. I felt helpless. Defeated. Like the world was telling me, No. Not you.
So I did the only thing I could—I started picking up overtime shifts with the ambulance service. I worked long hours, pushed my body to its limits, and tried to ignore the exhaustion. But it wasn’t sustainable. I was burning out.
Then something unexpected happened. I reconnected with a friend and colleague, and through her, I discovered a new path. I started my own travel business. I sold holidays, earned commissions, and slowly, something shifted. I found joy again. I found purpose. And within nine months—yes, nine months—I had earned enough to fund private IVF.
Just as I was sourcing clinics (and yes, please do your homework—check live birth rates, not just confirmed pregnancies), I found out I was pregnant. Naturally. No hormones. No egg retrieval. No medical intervention. My body had decided to play ball.
Two months ago, I held my son, Hunter, in my arms. My rainbow baby. My miracle. My why. His first cry washed away every hospital corridor, every forgotten referral, every sleepless night. He is proof that light can follow even the darkest storm.
Pregnancy loss is still a subject people shy away from. It’s uncomfortable. It’s painful. It’s invisible. But it’s real. And it deserves to be spoken about. Because in sharing, we heal. In speaking, we connect. And in telling our stories, we remind others that they are not alone.
If you’re walking through the dark right now, please know this: there is a little light. It may flicker. It may feel far away. But it’s there. And it’s worth holding on for.
Helpful Resources
“In the depth of winter I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”
– Albert Camus
