Chloe and Paul Fisher seemed to have it all. But their painful struggle was unrelenting
The grief brought me to my knees. It wasn’t the first time. And it wouldn’t be the last. On an autumn day in 2022, I sank into the sand at Palm Beach on the Gold Coast. My husband, Paul [DJ Fisher], kneeled beside me, and we placed two long-stemmed, white roses into the footstep-imprinted sand in front of us. Two roses for two angels. Two months earlier, I had been pregnant with two babies. I was no longer. At the start of 2022, I wrote down my goals for the year. Number one on the list was: become a mother. It was a goal I’d had for many years; my whole life, really. Paul and I had been actively trying for a baby for two-and-a-half years, and had experienced two miscarriages. So many twos. I desperately wanted 2022 to be the year I became a mother. I had such high hopes. On Monday, January 17, I started my fourth round of IVF injections. I injected myself twice a day, morning and night, every day for two weeks. Twenty days later, I had an egg retrieval procedure. Seven eggs were collected. Of those, five were inseminated, and two embryos survived until the all-important day-five mark. The last two embryos were given an A grade, and I was told they were blastocyst, meaning they had developed and were hatching. My doctor told me they were “perfectly great-looking embryos”.