Julie M's Story

A story of sixteen babies, a lifetime of hope, and learning to carry love differently

In 2006, I was 23 when I met my future husband online. He was 32, and we lived five hours apart. Distance didn’t stop us. Within 21 days we had met in person, and two days later we became an “us.”

I had already been warned that motherhood might not come easily. Five years earlier, I had been diagnosed with endometriosis and PCOS, and I knew that starting a family could be difficult. But knowing something might be difficult doesn’t make you want it any less. I had dreamed of being a mother since I was a little girl. I imagined at least one biological child, ideally two, and perhaps an adopted child one day. Thankfully, my husband dreamed of a family too. Within five months of meeting, we decided to start trying. We thought we were simply beginning the next chapter of our lives. We didn’t know we were beginning a journey that would change us forever.

The Two Lines

My gynaecologist started me on Clomid to help with ovulation. We went through six medicated cycles. Six times, I saw those two lines. Six times, my heart filled with hope. And six times, within days of seeing that positive test, we lost our baby. We also became pregnant twice between the Clomid cycles. Those pregnancies ended too. I quickly learned that a positive pregnancy test could bring both enormous joy and enormous fear. Every new pregnancy became a question:

Will this baby stay?

Initially, our losses were attributed to my fertility problems. After months of asking for further investigation, our doctor finally agreed to test my husband. The results changed everything. He had a very low sperm count, poor motility, poor morphology and very poor sperm DNA fragmentation. We were told these issues were most likely connected to medical problems he had experienced as a child that had been mistreated. Finally, we had an explanation. We were told his fertility problems were likely a major contributor to our miscarriages and that, given both of our fertility challenges, our best chance was IVF with ICSI and sperm aspiration.

The cost felt impossible. But my husband assured me we would find a way. We decided to begin IVF after our wedding. Before we could, we lost two more babies. One was our honeymoon baby. The other was an ectopic pregnancy discovered during surgery for my endometriosis. By then, we had lost eight babies. Eight tiny lives. Eight times we had hoped. Eight times we had said goodbye. And still, we believed our chance was coming.

IVF

In November 2009, we began our fresh IVF/ICSI cycle. Three injections every day. Scans. Blood tests. Appointments. Waiting. Hoping.

On 23 December, I underwent egg retrieval while my husband had sperm aspiration. The retrieval was particularly traumatic because of previous trauma I had experienced, but some how I got through it. Thirteen eggs were retrieved. The sperm aspiration produced healthy sperm. Eventually, we had five healthy embryos. One hatching blastocyst was transferred. Surely, this would be our time. It wasn’t. We lost that baby too. Yet somehow, hope survived.

Benji

In March 2010, we began our first frozen cycle. Two days after the five-day transfer, I saw a positive pregnancy test. Then another. And another. The lines became darker. The blood tests improved. We were pregnant. For the first time, it felt as though our dream might finally become reality. I had morning sickness. I craved straight Vegemite. We told close family and friends. But underneath the excitement, I was afraid. Something didn’t feel right. I told my doctors. I told the fertility nurses. I kept saying I was worried. I was reassured that everything was going well and that I was simply anxious because of our history. At six weeks and six days, I told my endocrinologist again that I was frightened. That night, I fainted and hit my stomach. We went to hospital but were reassured that I was very early in the pregnancy. The next day, our IVF nurse listened. She arranged a scan. And there he was. Our tiny baby. For the first time, we saw him. I thought I saw a flicker of a heartbeat before the screen was turned away. I started crying. I didn’t know why. I just knew. We were told everything was fine and sent home. An hour later, the phone rang. Our IVF nurse told us our baby’s heart had stopped during the scan. Our baby was gone.

I called my counsellor in tears. She encouraged my husband to take the night off work and for us to go somewhere special together. So we drove to the beach. We watched the sunset. And we began saying goodbye. Later, we learned our baby was a little boy. We named him Benji.

He had been with us longer than any of our babies before him. His loss broke something inside me.

When Grief Became Physical

Benji’s miscarriage became medically complicated, and I ended up in hospital. Instead of compassion, I was repeatedly accused of having an abortion at home. I hadn’t. I was a mother whose baby had died. Later, we discovered there had been a serious medication error during our IVF cycle. A nurse had ignored the dosage prescribed by my doctor and administered incorrect medication at dangerous doses. We were told this contributed to Benji’s death and caused damage that required surgery.

Years later, when we applied for a Recognition of Life Certificate for Benji, we discovered something else. Benji had been a twin. Nobody had told us. There had been another tiny life. Another baby. Another part of our story that we had never known.

Sixteen Little Ones

Six months later, we transferred another embryo. We lost that baby too. By then, I was struggling and needed a break. Even after stopping treatment, we experienced two natural pregnancies. Both ended in early loss. Eventually, our losses totalled sixteen.

We named every baby.

Sarah. Sam. Angelica. Davey. Robert. “Pumpkin”. Annabelle. Jack. Charity. Benji. Jazz. Marie. Julia. Eli. Kaden. Blossom.

Sixteen names. Sixteen little lives. Naming them became our way of saying; You existed. You mattered. You were loved.

Trying One More Time

In 2019, I finally felt ready to try again. Not because I had forgotten. Not because I wasn’t afraid. But because I needed to know we had done everything possible. We found a new fertility specialist and underwent extensive testing. We still had two embryos. But my body wasn’t ready.

Major gynaecological problems resulted in four surgeries over 18 months. I was told my body needed at least another 18 months to recover and that carrying a pregnancy to term might not even be possible. We also discovered I carried the MTHFR gene, which we were told could have contributed to our losses. Finally, we had a treatment plan that considered everything. For the first time, it felt as though all the pieces were being considered together. We were ready to try again. Then my thyroid became dangerously enlarged, crushing my airway and pressing against my heart. I needed surgery to save my life. Just days before that surgery, the clinic storing our embryos told us they had reached their storage limit. We arranged to collect them.

Later, we discovered that information had been incorrect and that they could have been stored longer. By then, our journey had taken so much from us. Eventually, it ended. Not with a baby in our arms. But with sixteen babies in our hearts.

The Ways We Remember

We never wanted our babies to become forgotten pregnancies. So, we remember them. For Benji, we have a memorial bear. We also had a bear made from baby clothes we had collected over the years, clothes intended for babies who never came home. We have a memorial garden. Every year on Benji’s angelversary, we make him a cake. My right shoulder carries a tattoo honouring Benji with seven tiny stars one for each week of his short life. Each beach visit we write Benji & his siblings nickname “McAngels” in the sand. We volunteer with Bears of Hope and donate to the Christmas Wishing Tree. These things don’t erase the grief. They give our love somewhere to go. Because love doesn’t disappear simply because someone is no longer physically here.

The Son Who Found Us

There is another part of our story that we will always consider a blessing. Through everything we experienced, we became “step-in” parents to an incredible young man. He had been part of our family since he was six months old. Twelve years ago, he came to live with us full-time and told us he was going to call us Mum and Dad. His story is his to tell. But our love for him is part of our story. Although we never had official custody of him, he is and always will be our son. He is now 24, and we are incredibly proud of him. He is one of the greatest blessings our journey gave us. But there is something I wish people understood: Gratitude doesn’t cancel grief. I can be grateful for our son and still grieve our babies. I can love the family we have and mourn the family we dreamed of. Both can be true.

The Ending Nobody Prepared Us For

Our original fertility clinic told us IVF would guarantee success. Nobody prepared us for the possibility that it might not. Nobody told us that some couples reach the end of their fertility journey without a biological child. We watched people around us start their families. Their babies were born. Their families grew. Their lives moved forward. And eventually, our journey ended without a biological baby to bring home. That is difficult to say. Because there is no neat ending to this story. No miracle baby. No final chapter where everything suddenly makes sense. There is simply the truth. We loved sixteen babies. We lost sixteen babies. And we carry every one of them.

I have learned that healing doesn’t mean leaving your babies behind. It means learning to carry them differently. Our babies are not in our arms. They are in their names. In our memories. In our garden. In a cake made every year. In a little bear made from clothes that never got worn. In the quiet moments when I wonder who they might have become, and in the part of my heart that will always belong to them.

Our journey didn’t give us the biological family we dreamed about. But it taught us something I will carry forever. Love doesn’t require a lifetime to be real. Sometimes it lasts for years. Sometimes months. Sometimes only days. Sometimes it exists in the brief space between two lines on a pregnancy test and the words, “I’m sorry.” But it is still love. Our babies were loved. They were wanted. They mattered and they always will. Some children are carried in their parents’ arms. Some are carried in their parents’ hearts. Ours will be carried there forever.