Since our last scan, there has been so much to celebrate. Erin and I had a great time in New York. We flew down to New Zealand to stay at a house by the beach, swam in the ocean every day, walked on grass, listened to birds and watched my little sister get married on one of the happiest days of my entire life.

My belly got bigger, I saw friends and family who asked about my pregnancy, and Erin and I felt more comfortable talking about what we were going through. The fear dissolved into the salt of the sea and the sun on our skin. It almost felt as if nothing so far, had been real. This new reality, of relaxed, carefree escape was whispering, See, there was nothing to worry about.

My first appointment at my new obgyn here, felt light and uplifting. I felt supported and as though I had a normal pregnancy. I was going to be referred to the MFM team at Auckland hospital where there would be sonographers and MFM specialists and paediatricians who would all help to understand our case. This was the right place to be, everything would be alright.

I had a specialist scan at the hospital scheduled for a few days after Erin would leave back to Hong Kong, and I was dreading having to go without him. Yesterday, the day he was flying out, there was a cancellation and we both scrambled to get ourselves to the hospital as fast as we could.

We took a ferry into the city. As we sat on the top deck, the wind whipping through us, I thought about all the things that could be blown away from me. Sunglasses, jewelry, clothes. I had this realisation that nothing that’s truly ours can ever really be taken away. All the things I was worried about falling away from me, weren’t really mine to begin with. Just stuff. It made me think about Junebug and how maybe if they’re taken away from me in body, they won’t be taken away in spirit. That the part that’s mine will always be with me.

The scan at Auckland hospital was an icy plunge back to a place we thought we’d left behind. We’d both felt so positive for the last month. But there, on the report afterwards, was a selection of our worst fears. It was like being shot over and over and over. Slow growth. Very small chest. Short ribs. Hypertelorism. Possibly pulmonary hypoplasia.

Our TC/AC ratio was 0.84 a month ago. It had dropped to 0.68. 0.6 is indicative of lethality.

Our AC/FL ratio was 0.17 a month ago. It had dropped to 0.13. Anything under 0.16 is indicative of lethality.

On the screen, Junebug was opening and closing their mouth as they practiced breathing. Moving their hands. Kicking the ultrasound wand. Doing all the things a fetus should be doing to get ready for the world. And as always, they were so, so beautiful. I would say that it's not fair and that we feel cheated by our optimism. But as we keep learning, nothing is fair. 

Erin and I walked through the park like zombies. We had both been in such a good place. We really felt Junebug had turned a corner. Hope melted away for both of us and stung as it did. We don’t want to lose this baby. But that’s irrelevant. It doesn’t matter what we want.

Erin tried to change his flight but with no luck. Saying goodbye to my mum, sister, brother-in-law and him, knowing we won’t see each other for another month, hollowed me out. Dad has stayed with me, so I’m not alone. But to be honest I don’t ever really feel alone anymore. Junebug is always with me. But I feel like we're both in free-fall together, and I don't know how to keep us afloat. As I fell asleep last night, every enthusiastic kick felt like a combination of a cruel joke, and pure joy.

Our next scan isn’t for another month and at this point, I don’t know how I’ll get there. In my mind, I wonder if it’ll be easier to just pretend I’m not pregnant. Just ignore that part of my existence here. It feels a bit like trying to compartmentalise a tsunami. I’ve never felt more helpless. I don’t know how to walk out into the world this morning and not disintegrate.

Being able to write about it at least eases the pressure on my thoughts for a little while. I’m grateful for being here in New Zealand, and having somewhere to hide. I’ve started reading a book about making the most of your pregnancy when your baby has a terminal prenatal diagnosis. So far, it’s shown me the ubiquity of grief, pain and tragedy. And made me feel that with all the incredible people out there who’ve experienced this, why would we be contenders for a miracle, if they weren’t. 

My cousin told me a week ago, that a way to cope and accept when things seem to be falling apart around us, is to focus on what is perfect about this moment, here and now. If you do that, you’ll always find something, and every moment will be perfect.

Right now: the sunrise out the window, the sound of birds, and the life I created with Erin—Junebug—bumping around inside me.