Have been nerve-wracking. I’ve barely been able to talk about my pregnancy let alone write about it, for fear of hexing it.

The anxiety has built steadily in the weeks leading up to the 12 week marker point, this coming Wednesday – and it was never more pronounced than in the last few days. As I cramped and started spotting what I think, now, was old blood, I was prepared myself to lose the game again. There’s a reason why you’re not safe until 12 weeks, I thought, that doesn’t mean something won’t go awry at 11 weeks and 6 days.

But, fingers crossed, the spotting has recently stopped. Looking back on when it happened, it coincided with when I might have had my period but I’m not sure whether that’s a helpful or scary thing to know at this juncture – the idea of the foetus trying to take the next available exit freaks me out.

My scan is a week tomorrow and I’ve decided to wait it out quietly. Even if the spotting started again, there’s nothing an earlier scan could do to change the outcome. So for now I am going to sit with as much hope as I can muster, sending all the strength and love I have to the little thing that’s growing in my belly.

Meantime, I feel I should be getting in touch with a few of my close friends to tell them the news before the 12 week scan happens. I went on a journey with one in particular who is still trying to conceive herself. But I can’t summon the energy to make the call. I don’t want her to feel as if I held it back on purpose, but I feel too wrapped up in my own anxiety and superstition to pick up the phone. It also occurred to me that I’m being a coward. I know what it felt like to be told that another good friend had fallen pregnant. Sure, I was happy for them but it tore a little piece of my heart. And I wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone.