Once upon a time, I was one of those women - you know, the ones who we're all secretly convinced are in fact an urban infertility myth - the ones who get pregnant just before they're about to start their first cycle of IVF.
The month before we were due to start treatment, we went on holiday. I'd stopped charting at that point, so it wasn't until we got back home that I realised that I was a whole week late. Prompted by Mr H, I took a home pregnancy test for the first time in my life. I sat and watched incredulously as that magical second line appeared. Just to be sure, I took another test the following morning - and there it was again. I went to the doctor's, where a third test confirmed that yes, I was in fact pregnant. For two whole weeks, I hugged the precious secret of my pregnancy to myself. With every wave of nausea, it started to seem more and more real.
And then the bleeding started.
They booked me in for a scan later on in the week, but by then I already knew that I'd lost my baby. 'You've been a very lucky girl,' said the sonographer. 'The evacuation is more or less complete; you won't need surgery.' And so, two years ago to this day, I was discharged from the early pregnancy assessment unit at our local hospital.
That was it. My one brief experience of pregnancy.
And two years on, two attempts at IVF down the line, I can't help but wonder whether that was in fact my one shot, my only chance. Would all the subsequent BFNs somehow be easier to deal with if I hadn't had that one brief positive?