I wondered whether the miscarriage would make us more or less enthusiastic about trying again. In my case, nothing had really changed, all my reasons for wanting a sibling for my son were still there, and his charmingly demanding presence just hadn’t given me the opportunity to dwell on the miscarriage or wallow as I might have done. And I think B probably felt the same.

The only thing was my cycle was, well, not exactly what you’d call regular. It had fleetingly slipped into some sort of a monthly-ish pattern after I stopped breastfeeding, but given that at points I was on “day 57”, I didn’t really feel I was in a position to hang around and so I convinced the clinic that while they would have liked me to have a “normal period” before embarking on another cycle, they should let me just crack on, assuming everything on the scan looked OK. And yet at the same time as really wanting this to happen, I also didn’t want to put our lives on hold, I didn’t want to miss out on my living, breathing child because I was so preoccupied with one that didn’t yet exist. And so we made plans, and booked holidays.

And — of course, of COURSE — the timing of my period, when it eventually came, suggested that I’d need a scan while I was away. And so I organised this, and learnt how to ask for the images and information that I needed in a foreign language, and took a whole load of medication away with me. And having got the images and the information that I needed and sent them through to my clinic, I tried not to panic when I got a call from them telling me I needed to start taking the medication there and then, and could I please be back for an embryo transfer four days later, slap bang in the middle of our two week holiday.

And so I got on a plane, the day before, and had a little 48 hour mini-break at home, before flying back out to continue my holiday, feeling like I couldn’t NOT have done exactly what I did, but also fully expecting it to have been a waste of time and money. (I mean I say mini break, I will never forget the pain of having a bladder that felt fuller than it had ever been before in my life. Because the last transfer I did had had to be delayed because I hadn’t drunk enough water and I was determined that that wouldn’t happen again, I drank what felt like gallons of the stuff. And then they were running late. And I could barely exchange pleasantries with the consultant who was doing the transfer because I just wanted him to hurry the fuck up so I could go and wee.)