I had to terminate my pregnancy at 21 weeks, knowing it was my very last chance to have a baby after spending £54k on IVF. I’ll never get over the grief – and what happened next was so torturous: EMMA KEMSLEY

‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing we can do for your baby.’

These were the scary words spoken by a doctor after the 20-week scan. A scan showing that my baby had a rare condition that would prevent his bladder, kidneys and lungs from developing.

As a result, my baby would not survive and I was told I would have to have an abortion for medical reasons (TFMR) at 21.5 weeks.

Such a situation is devastating for any parent. But what made mine even more unbearable was that I knew that if I lost this baby, I would probably never be able to have another.

After three long years of trying and six rounds of in vitro fertilization, this was our last chance.

There would be no next time, no miracle after the storm, no second chance to try again, no rainbow baby. This is it; The end of my road to motherhood. I would be closing the door on that part of my life forever.

My world came crashing down as I was given the abortion clinic card and sent on my way.

Years of untold emotional, physical and financial investments were in vain.

I made a choice no parent should ever have to face; Giving up the little life I longed for, knowing that I would never have another life again. The pain was suffocating. But in the end I chose the most difficult form of love; I chose my child’s peace over my own pain.

I knew pregnancy was always going to be challenging for me.

When I was diagnosed with severe stage 4 endometriosis at the age of 27, almost a decade after my pain was ignored by doctors, it was too late. My fertility had already vanished.

Emma and husband James spent more than £50,000 on IVF

Stage 4 endometriosis is the most advanced form of the disease, where endometrial tissue and large ovarian cysts connect your organs. At the time of diagnosis, my uterus, ovaries and fallopian tubes, as well as my colon, intestines and bladder, were already damaged.

I was told I needed in vitro fertilization to get pregnant while still using my own eggs, and I started in vitro fertilization at the age of 32.

My husband, who I had been with for six years when I was diagnosed, was incredible. She became my caregiver when the pain was so bad I couldn’t even get out of bed.

Still, like many people who choose this path to parenthood, I naively thought it would work.

After all, fertility clinics are silencing the stories of women like me who have spent tens of thousands of pounds and injected hormones for years, only to be left with empty arms and choose to highlight their success rates. According to the Human Fertilization and Embryology Authority (HFEA), the average IVF pregnancy rate is around 31 percent, with increasing success for patients aged 18-34.

Five rounds failed, four of which we self-financed. Our third cycle resulted in a biochemical pregnancy (a miscarriage that occurred within the first five weeks), which provided a glimmer of hope. After each failed IVF cycle, I would pick myself back up and remain hopeful that the next one would be successful. I was stuck in an expensive medical world of supplements, scans, and injections, determined to get to the finish line.

After three long years and spending nearly £54,000, on our sixth self-funded round, my husband and I finally saw two pink lines on the pregnancy test.

We both stared at the positive test in disbelief. But instead of being overjoyed, I acted cautiously. Unfortunately, multiple IVF treatments take away the excitement of pregnancy and replace it with fear and anxiety.

I took the pregnancy week by week and gradually felt more confident as we reached each milestone. But at week 18, a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach told me to get a reassurance scan. I didn’t experience any physical symptoms that made me believe something was wrong, but I had an overwhelming instinct that made me panic.

We both stared at the positive test in disbelief. But instead of being overjoyed, I was cautious

I thought I was being paranoid, desperate to stay in a safe zone, but my instincts were right.

A special scan revealed that there was a problem with the baby’s bladder. I immediately called my obstetrics team and begged for a scan early in the 20th week. A week later, my footsteps echoed in a dimly lit hospital corridor. I went into the scan hopeful but left with devastating news.

The diagnosis was Posterior Urethral Valves (PUV), a rare condition in which a blockage in the urethra prevents the baby’s bladder, kidneys and lungs from developing.

Suddenly the medical teams told me that my baby was a fetus. The language has changed from affectionate to clinical. It wasn’t intentional, but it hurt.

It felt like time stood still when they told me there was no hope, that our baby’s kidneys were too damaged to sustain life, that nothing could save our baby. That’s when I was told I would need TFMR.

We had decided that our sixth round of IVF would be our last.

In a situation like this, you want nothing more than reassurance that you’ve made the right decision. I wanted to know that the doctors were 100 percent right; The ‘what if’ sneaks in and haunts you like a never-ending nightmare.

By choosing to terminate labor for medical reasons, I wasn’t just losing my baby. It was goodbye to everything you dreamed of with children; all the firsts, the excitement of Christmas through a child’s eyes, birthday parties, family holidays and so much more. These imaginary scenarios faded away before they even started.

And what followed the diagnosis was a crusade of convoluted problems.

Before I got pregnant, I was advised to have a cesarean section due to complications of endometriosis, adenomyosis, and scar tissue. For the same reason I couldn’t have a vaginal birth, I would need a surgical termination rather than the hospital triggering a premature birth.

However, my hospital does not do surgical medical termination after 14 weeks. So I was referred to an abortion clinic, but let’s be clear: TFMR is not an abortion. There is no other choice in this matter.

Due to my complicated gynecological history the clinic was unable to perform the procedure. Stuck between pregnancy and pain, I had to organize the worst day of my life alone, without any support. Time froze. I wandered from hospital to hospital, fighting for my own safety. Every day I hoped I would miscarry naturally to avoid trauma. Eventually the charity Marie Stopes helped bring my case to light and I decided to undergo surgery at a hospital in East London, more than an hour from my home in Cambridge.

Even now, four years later, I still can’t understand how I walked into that theater in a heartbeat and left only in silence.

There is no simple way to describe this kind of loss. It’s not just grief; a quiet, painful confusion that lies somewhere between love, guilt, and survival. The loss of a baby due to TFMR does not fit into the world’s mourning language. It’s an overshadowed pain, caught between motherhood and miscarriage.

No support was provided thereafter.

After the surgery, my milk came. I was told bleeding was to be expected, but no one had warned me about this painful and ironic part. To make matters worse, I later learned that there was medication to prevent it, but it was not offered to me.

Eight weeks after TFMR, I was hospitalized with sepsis following an ovarian infection. Thinking it was a bad post-pregnancy period of endometriosis, I lay in my bed vomiting from the pain and almost lost my life.

A year later, my mother passed away suddenly. The pain was great. I was emotionally, physically and financially exhausted. I learned how short life can be in every sense. Creating life was a miracle and could be destroyed in an instant.

But in the midst of this pain, something inside me changed. I couldn’t go on with my life thinking ‘what if’.

While I could theoretically try IVF again as long as my battered ovaries allowed, after years on the fertility merry-go-round, I had to be brave and embrace the fact that my life might look different than I expected.

Life after infertility may not look like you imagined. But I want all women in my situation to know that it can be filled with happiness.

After years of hospital appointments, hormones, scans, blood tests, saving every penny, and living a life on hold, I said goodbye to the idea of ​​children in 2022 and chose a different lifestyle that offered happiness and freedom.

Today, my wife and I live a happy life in the Mediterranean. This may not include children, and the pain of losing a child never truly subsides, but I have never regretted my decision to have TFMR.

Life after infertility may not look like you imagined. But I want all women in my situation to know that it can be filled with happiness.

Because sometimes resilience isn’t about holding on, it’s about knowing when to let go.

Follow Emma on Instagram @emma_kemsley