It's estimated that one in every four diagnosed pregnancies tragically ends in a miscarriage.

This is her miscarriage story.

I took a pregnancy test on a Monday, the day after I expected my period. I was in a fog of grief. The previous Friday, we'd put my beloved dog down.

Suddenly, we had this happy accident to celebrate. Weird change in emotions.

We figured we'd gotten pregnant in Vegas the month before. At my ultrasound, we were surprised to learn I was only three weeks pregnant. Just barely pregnant. A bubble on the screen. The dates didn't quite match up to the Vegas dates, but there were other times we could've gotten pregnant. My doctor told us to come back the next week to we'd see if we could see anything.

We did. Bigger bubble. The next week? An even bigger bubble. The next week? The heartbeat! Still beating the next week, phew! Things were looking good. We went on vacation, and at my doctor's urging, relaxed.

Three weeks after we returned from our vacation, at nine weeks pregnant, we discovered the embryo stopped developing at 6 weeks, 2 days. For three weeks, I was blissfully unaware.

I was given medication to remove the tissue which created a horror-show level of blood, and, at one point, I fainted. It was traumatizing. The clots and the blood and there goes our baby, with every flush of the toilet. Terrible things you don't want to think about when you pee on a stick.

A few weeks later, I went to the doctor to make sure my womb was empty. It wasn't, but the doctor said the remaining tissue would pass.

My cycle returned three months later, and six months after that, we were elated to see PREGNANT on the pee stick again. Given our happy accident (and the happy accident that ended in our three-year-old daughter), we were surprised it took that long.

Given the previous miscarriage, we went in at six weeks for the ultrasound. We got the green light from the doctor, "Everything's looking great," she said.

The following week, I noticed the slightest brown discharge, figured it was nothing, but went in to the doctor anyway. No heartbeat. 6 weeks 1 day. I believe the terminology was, "I don't know that I can say this is a viable pregnancy." The ultrasound department confirmed it. At the end of the appointment, the tech asked us if we had any kids.

Because that's always a consolation. There are, like, five trite responses when you have a miscarriage, none of which make the woman feel better. Mostly a variation of "this happened for a reason," which has always made me want to punch something.

I remember someone - a physician, no less - saying, "Well at least you have one healthy child." Which yeah, I mean, yeah. We're thankful and shit, of course, but that just made me feel guilty for feeling as shitty as I did.

I had a D&C for this miscarriage - it was over in just a few minutes. We were told we needed testing so we went to see a specialist. She told us that once my cycle resumed, we'd be able to do a full-workup of tests to see what was wrong.

I did a number on myself, convinced I had blown out my thyroid from low-carb dieting - why would you do this? Why would you choose losing weight over a baby? Things were spinning out of control, as I tried grasping onto some shred of evidence that I was to blame, and the inverse, I was the one who could fix it.

My codependent upbringing was shining through.

My cycle didn't fully return, but on the days I thought I might be ovulating, my husband and I avoided intercourse. But that month, I figured "who the hell cares?" We did the deed once using the rhythm method; I got pregnant.

I started taking progesterone inserts, which made me bat-shit crazy. I found out I was pregnant on a Wednesday, had my hCG levels taken on Thursday, on Sunday I had them taken again. The nurses called Monday; my hCG level dropped. This pregnancy was a no-go. Five weeks.

A few weeks later, I was diagnosed with Asherman's Syndrome. The tissue from the first miscarriage stayed in my uterus, wreaked havoc, creating layer upon layer of cobwebby scar tissue all over my uterus and preventing a fertilized embryo from implanting.

I went out-of-network to one of the few Asherman's Syndrome specialists in the country. Eight corrective procedures - and the price of a new Honda Civic - later, I am scar-free and we are trying to get pregnant.

We are hopeful.

It took me a really long time, months and months of work, to allow myself feel my feelings without judging them or trying to change them.

I'm the quintessential EVERYTHING IS GREAT! FINE! COULDN'T BE BETTER! person. For more than a few months, I let myself feel shitty, let my expectations about being an always-positive, super-pleasant person go by the wayside.

God knows people who haven't had a miscarriage will judge, assume and worst of all - not even acknowledge it. The hard work, and where I found the most comfort, became noticing my feelings, respecting them, and evolving to a place where I could be super clear with friends, family, and my husband to ask for what I needed.

Sometimes what I needed was time crying on the couch watching the Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood with a glass of wine. Sometimes it was telling a close friend, "I'm really sorry, but I just can't come to your baby shower, it's too painful."

I'm expecting my period Monday.

Ordinarily I'd whip myself up into a foam of WHY AM I SO CRAZY when getting excited to take a pregnancy test. I don't judge my reactions anymore because I can't pretend to not have a lot of emotion around this; it's been a rough road. I'll take a test; we'll see what happens. I've had 3 out of 4 surprise pregnancies; if it didn't happen this month, it'll probably happen soon.

I am hopeful.