Fourth and final

The immediate, unmistakable second pink line on the test laid on the bathroom counter - oh, the power of that pink line. The possibility that it stands for, the hope for a healthy pregnancy and a perfect newborn and another loved child. One slim line that releases a cascade of happy plans.

And yet, personal and professional experience with pregnancy loss have primed me to assume nothing. I'm expecting strikes me as presumptuous. And so I am not expecting. But I am pregnant.

On discovering I had conceived, I was overwhelmed by the sense that this was obviously grand work, this close involvement with birth, and briefly, all else looked anemic. I am thrilled, at least as much as I can remember with my other children. It doesn't feel commonplace; my previous experiences - good and bad - make it that much more meaningful. It's been almost five years since Ariana was born. This me, the 36-year-old mother of three, physician to refugees, living in Deep Cove, has never been pregnant.

I first felt the baby move at sixteen weeks: a soft swipe, a sliding sensation. Then the movements changed to knocks, small thuds, bumps and turns. I often lie on the couch, pants unbuttoned, both hands on my belly, waiting for baby to buck and shift; its solid presence can take my breath away.

I'm 27 weeks, 3 days. I have a globe of a belly, a baby cardigan on the needles, three very pleased children and a non-stop pace at the office that keeps baby rocked to sleep most of the day.

I'm in no hurry to progress. Right now, everything is as it should be.