I was pregnant. And then I wasn’t. The first thing I said after the miscarriage , as I buried my face into my husband’s chest, was: “We told so many people.” I didn’t think of him or me or the fetus, but the pain of a lovely story no longer true.

I had shared the happy news with our parents, siblings, close friends, my closest co-workers so they’d understand why I was weepy (or weepier) than usual, my boss, three Lyft drivers, one Vons grocery bagger and the owner of the liquor store around the corner. The news felt so satisfying: the shriek, the hug, the tears. There’s nothing more exhilarating than having news to share.

Immediately upon arriving home from the fateful doctor visit, I emailed those we had told. I wanted to quickly correct the record, to wipe away people’s happy feelings, which now felt shameful. And though we don’t admit it, even bad news is exhilarating to share.

I now look back on that quickly composed note, alerting them that “we lost the baby,” and wonder if we’ll ever find our misplaced child again. Our news wasn’t completely surprising. When I began to tell close friends about seven weeks into my pregnancy, I would always include a verbal asterisk: “But it’s early and I know the statistics, so really I’m just pregnant with possibility.”

When they heard this, my dear loved ones would crinkle up their faces and admonish what I considered to be a reasonable outlook on my present situation:

“Don’t say that!”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Don’t put that energy out in the world.”

Thirty to 40 percent of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. I was 35, meaning I had crested the tipping point for “advanced maternal age” and was now the beneficiary of extra scrutiny from my OB/GYN and a slightly less rosy statistical outlook. At 34, I begged my gynecologist to grandfather me in to unadvanced maternal age if I could manage to get pregnant before turning 35, even if my baby was coming after the “geriatric” milestone. She didn’t understand why I cared so much, and I changed doctors.