Why can’t academics ever enjoy good news: on getting pregnant in my late 30s

“Hi, Magda. I got all your messages about checking in on the ultrasound results” My midwife, M— begins. I turn the car phone volume down and rotate the fader all the way to the front speakers. My son, S— is in the backseat and we haven’t shared the news with him.

"The hospital didn't transfer any files to me, but I looked into your record. You have one healthy heartbeat in there!"  

“Oh!” I reply.

Another human is alive inside of me. All I wanted.

M— punctuates its healthy heart rate to assuage my concerns. Earlier that week, I found a log of ailments with a makeshift literature review from my first pregnancy. So, in a hormonal hurricane I'd left her a fretful stream of messages when I didn’t receive my ultrasound results within 24 hours. I repeat the heart rate twice out loud, to not forget but I forget it anyway. I'm frazzled, wanting all the details but trying to keep things vague and brief, so  S— can't piece it together. I’m only 8 weeks pregnant, with a 5.8% chance of miscarriage—high odds for a pessimist. Yet, I've conceived on the first try, again. At my age.

“If it’s too good to be true, it probably is” pop psychology repeats in my head.

Unlike with S—, I have no fatigue or food aversions. Without the archetypal symptoms of “a baby brewing inside,” how could I not think it's dead? Momentarily assured the baby is alive, my partner and I decide to tell S—. If a miscarriage materializes, we would experience it together.