You try for so long. Month after month, hope rises and crashes. Then one ordinary day, your wife walks in holding a test, her voice trembling:
“Can you see a line?”
You look. It’s faint… but it’s there.
Your heart stirs, but you tell yourself, don’t get your hopes up.
That night, you’re both in the car, heading to the shop for a clearer test. Standing under the harsh store lights, picking up that little box that could change everything. At home, you wait for the result.
Positive.
Still, you whisper to yourselves, don’t get your hopes up.
Over the next few days, the lines grow darker. You can’t help it—you start to believe. You begin to imagine tiny hands, the day you’ll share the news, your family’s faces lighting up. After so much loss, so many months of trying and failing, it feels like maybe, just maybe, this is it.
The day of the first scan comes. You drive in silence, your hearts full but cautious. Sitting in the waiting room, your legs jitter with a mix of fear and excitement. You are about to see your little star.
Then you’re in the room.
The doctor moves the probe, silent. Seconds stretch into an eternity.
Nothing where it should be.
Maybe it’s too early, they say. But they see… something. Out of place. Come back in a week.
The drive home is quiet. Worry takes root.
That week feels endless.
Then, the second scan.
Nothing in the womb. But in the Fallopian tube, there it is. Again.
Your wife’s eyes fill with a fear you know too well. You’ve been here before.
You already know how this ends.
Within hours, hope shatters into chaos. You’re in a blur of corridors and scrubs. Doctors, surgeons, specialists, mental health nurses. Words like “ectopic” and “emergency” echo in your head. They weigh her, take blood, prep her for surgery. She’s crying, terrified.
And you—you have to be the rock. The steady hand. Because right now, she needs you to be unshakeable.
Then a nurse arrives with a wheelchair. They take her away to theatre. And just like that, she’s gone.
You wait. Alone.
Three hours. Four. Five. Each minute stretching into panic.
Finally, the surgeon appears. She’s okay, they say. Complications, but she’s safe. Relief hits, but it’s laced with grief. Because you know what was lost.
And just like that, what began as the faintest line of hope became another scar in your story.
If I could say one thing: Sadly, you’re not alone in this. It happens more than you know. Talk to people, hear their stories, there’s kindness out there, and so much support waiting for you.
Thank you to our contributor for sharing their experience. If you would like to share your experience of ectopic pregnancy, please visit our guide for more information.
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