The Children I Carried: Miscarriage, Motherhood, and the Dignity of Life

I lost my first pregnancy six months after I was married. I was 27 years old, and within two weeks of receiving a positive pregnancy test I miscarried spontaneously. My doctor at the time kindly reassured me that there was no reason to believe it would happen again. Even so, I remember wondering quietly to myself whether I might become one of those “miscarrying women.”

In the years that followed I welcomed two beautiful baby boys, born 20 months apart. My heart was full of hope during that time. I had once imagined having four children, but after my sons were born I found myself thinking that perhaps we might have five, or even six. There seemed to be no reason to think that growing our family would be difficult.

However, I then experienced two more early losses. One occurred at six weeks, and the next happened within days of a positive pregnancy test. That very early loss affected me more deeply than I expected. I remember feeling a kind of desperation that I had not experienced at other times in my life, and it made me realise that no one can truly understand the depth of a mother’s grief, regardless of how early in pregnancy her baby is lost.

My first second trimester loss occurred at 17 weeks. I sensed that something was not right and arranged to have an ultrasound. I gradually came to recognise the quiet signs that something is wrong. When everything is normal the sonographer usually shows you the baby almost immediately, but when something is not right the room becomes very quiet, and the waiting feels almost unbearable. Because I did not miscarry naturally, I was admitted to hospital and induced. I delivered John, who was likely about 14 weeks gestation when his heart stopped beating. I was in deep shock at the time and did not hold him. I was not sure if I could and I was too afraid to ask whether it was possible. I named him John after the beloved disciple. I have no photographs of him, something that only occurred to me later when the moment had already passed.

The following year we welcomed a daughter, and with her birth hope returned to our family. Yet not long afterwards I lost two more babies, Gabriel and Joseph, both again at 17 weeks. I never felt either of them kick. One of those losses followed a scan on Christmas morning. This time I prepared small beanies and blankets for them because I remembered how bare and cold John had seemed. My mother also bought a small trinket box so they could be laid in something beautiful. I took photographs of them, and in doing so I felt that I had corrected, in some small way, the lack of honour that John had received simply because I had not known what to do at the time. It was then that I realised I had indeed become one of those “miscarrying women.”

When I was 38 years old, after much prayer, I gave birth to another son. His arrival felt like a small miracle, and for a time we believed our family was complete. Yet a year later both my husband and I felt hesitant to close that chapter of our lives.

In my next pregnancy I again reached 17 weeks feeling very anxious, but then I felt my baby kick for ten wonderful minutes. I felt immense relief because I had never felt John, Gabriel, or Joseph move. In that moment I believed that perhaps we had finally passed the danger period. Tragically I never felt her move again, and Mary was born a week later.

Six months later I was pregnant once more. When I saw the pregnancy test my first reaction was intense fear, although there was also a sense of gladness. I miscarried Jude at home at 12 weeks.

In 2018, while I was six weeks pregnant, I was elected President of the Rockhampton branch of Cherish Life. Two days later abortion legislation passed in the Queensland Parliament. That pregnancy was extremely difficult as I suffered severe reflux and was constantly unwell. At 34 weeks, without warning, our daughter Maria died following a complete placental abruption. I was haemorrhaging internally without realising it. I remember the obstetrician searching for a heartbeat and then quietly saying, “I’m sorry. There is no heartbeat.” Maria was born peacefully. The midwives treated her with extraordinary dignity and care. They arranged photographs, casts of her hands and feet, and beautiful garments for her to wear. Our children were able to hold their sister and spend time with her. Handing my perfect daughter to the undertaker was the most holy and precious moment of my life.

Two more early losses followed. Anne was delivered at home and I photographed her beside a pendant of tiny feet. Gerard’s miscarriage was much more frightening because I haemorrhaged severely and feared for my life.

Finally, at the age of 44, after another very difficult pregnancy and another placental abruption at 34 weeks, our last son was delivered by emergency caesarean section. His placenta was failing and he spent several weeks in special care, but by the grace of God he survived. He has brought great comfort and joy to our home.

Altogether I have experienced 17 pregnancies, and 12 of those ended in loss. For many years I hesitated to share images of my babies because I feared that others might not treat them with the dignity they deserve. But I no longer want fear to silence me. My babies were treated with great respect in death, and every child deserves that dignity in life.

In the end, motherhood teaches us something profound about the dignity of human life. Even when a life is brief, hidden, or never fully seen by the world, it is still deeply known and loved by the mother who carried it. The quiet grief a mother feels when a baby is lost reminds us that every human life, no matter how small or fragile, has immeasurable worth.