I am not a big believer in good luck. I don’t gamble on any chance-based game. Part of that’s the control freak in me while another part of that is a perpetual fear of disappointment... especially if my hopes are already high. I may not believe in your typical Western or Chinese superstitions but I do believe in jinxes. Right up until the day we signed on the dotted line, I kept saying “IF Blake and I get married” instead of WHEN. I take very little for granted. I never, ever believe anything is a given until it happens, because you can’t be disappointed if you were never truly excited.

It was the same case when we turned out to be extremely lucky in trying for a baby. We only started trying this year. I couldn’t believe our luck. I had actually “planned” for it take about 2 years for us to fall pregnant, for no reason other than it was easier not to have high hopes. I had it all worked out: we’d try for 6 months then add on regular ovulation testing. If that didn’t work after another 6 months then we’d go in for fertility testing. I had already partially budgeted for IVF and was continuing to set money aside so that after the first year, we’d have the cash. I was fully expecting us to need all this, because I wanted to be prepared. I never expected that we’d be the lucky ones, and thus my excitement around the pregnancy was heavily tempered from the start.

When I first told my parents about the pregnancy, in the same breath I was clear that it was early days and anything could happen. I didn’t even tell my own sister at first. Both sets of parents were under strict gag orders until we gave them the go-ahead to tell people. I refused to talk about it at work because I was petrified that I was going to miscarry, because no one is this fucking lucky.

Everything hung on the results of our combined test: the 12-week ultrasound and the accompanying blood test. (I opted not to do the harmony test unless the combined test came back as high risk.) On the 3rd of September, the doctor confirmed we had a low-risk result.

The relief and excitement that followed was exhilarating. It was like the bursting of a very full dam. I immediately went and bought some baby socks and a baby blanket as a conduit for some of my very high energy. I texted both sets of parents to tell them that they could tell whoever they wanted. I gave myself permission to be excited. I booked pregnancy yoga classes. I booked in a day for us to try out a pram I had my eye on. I got a membership to our nearby baby stuff store. I bought maternity clothes. After all, everything was okay!

What a fucking trap that turned out to be, hey?

Pregnant women are told that the risk of miscarriage drops off significantly after the first trimester, to the tune of less than 0.5%. For the vast majority, this is supposed to be a reassuring, “safe” time. The second trimester is the “good” trimester for most pregnant women! I thought I was one of those women... I was supposed to be one of those women.

I was so careful not to allow my hopes to climb until everything was supposed to be all right. And not long after I allowed myself to get my hopes up, just as we both got used to the idea of being excited, it was taken from us. It just feels so fucking unfair. I’m not sure I will ever allow that excitement to sink in again, not even with future pregnancies.

We were really lucky to be able to get pregnant so quickly. I remain grateful for that, at least. Many couples try for years and this type of loss is even harder as a result. So yes. Lucky. As a word, “lucky” usually refers to an outcome that is either perceived or understood as unlikely.

Are we still “lucky” if we also happened to fall into the 0.5%?