A NY Times Article Dated January 10, 2013
One year I was pregnant four times. I was 38 and newly married. I got pregnant the first time in January. A few weeks later, I miscarried.
For every season of that year, I have a photo of me holding a pregnancy test with two pink lines marking positive. By summer my smile is tentative.
Each pregnancy followed its own, idiosyncratic course. One ended gently, just days after a home test turned positive. Another hung on 10 weeks, the embryo’s heart stopping after we’d seen it pulsing during two previous ultrasounds. Another pregnancy my doctor tried to save by prescribing progesterone. That only caused the little bundle of cells to cling to me too tenaciously, long after it stopped growing.
Still, each new pregnancy brought renewed hope. So did the battery of tests that found nothing wrong, and the doctor who advised us to just keep trying.