After ten years and eight miscarriages, daily shots of Pergonal had allowed me to get pregnant and stay pregnant for an entire eight weeks, long enough for an ultrasound. Finally, I was going to see a tiny heart flicker on that fuzzy black and white screen. The cold wand glided slowly over my jellied abdomen. Quietly and slowly, the technician counted out loud:

"One…Two…Three…Four…Five…I think that's it."

"What's it?" I asked.

"I count five."

"Five what?"

"Five sacks, I've never seen that before"

I didn't know what to say or think. Did she just tell me that she counted five heartbeats? Another technician came in and started over. This time I saw the tiny flickers on the monitor. When I asked what that meant, the first technician said my doctor would give me the details.

In a daze, I left the hospital and beeped my husband Bill, a trade show carpenter, at the Javits Convention Center in New York City. Bill was putting up the American International Toy Fair, but he came home right away. Frightened and thrilled, we went to church and lit five candles.

We had no idea of what lay ahead, but we believed this happened for a reason. Was it God's way of making up for my miscarriages? Was he trying to give back what I had lost? Those years of anguish-were we being tested for this all along?

Only three years earlier, Bill and I had gotten divorced. Our problem was the "I" word: Infertility. It had turned our bedroom into a testing ground. What was once a wonderful, spontaneous act of love had become a scheduled, on-demand performance that failed and was repeated month after month, year after year. Then it came "The Blame." Whose fault was it? My body was rejecting the fetuses, so I blamed myself. I wasn't prepared for the disappointment or for the anger that turned into rage at my husband. Every time I looked into his eyes I felt inadequate. It didn't matter how supportive he tried to be, so he stopped trying.

We had been high-school sweethearts, I was 17, and Bill, 18, in 1976, when his father was dying of cancer and my parents announced their divorce. Our families out of reach, Bill and I clung to each other. When I was 20, we married. Five years later, I asked for the divorce. Bill let me go, but his last words to me were, "No one will ever love you like I love you"

For two years I threw myself into work as manager of imports for my family's furniture business. It was easy to increase my hours and days, so I wouldn't feel so alone. I pretended that I was never happier. For a while, I even convinced myself. Bill and I still had many mutual friends, who invited us both to parties. We began talking and laughing again. No pressure, no demands, and no expectations. We re-established our friendship.

Now I knew what I really wanted: a life with Bill. He didn't care if I couldn't give him children. He just wanted me, as I was. The infertility would still be there, but this time we would handle it and each other with more care. We started a new life together, and along came my miracle doctor, with a new fertility drug, Pergonal-the mixed blessing.

After the five heartbeats were found, the doctor sent me to a specialist at Colombia Presbyterian Medical Center in Manhattan, where a more sophisticated ultrasound revealed a sixth embryo. Bill and I held hands tightly as we waited to speak to the specialist. Finally he came in and laid out facts we had never dreamed of and realities we weren't sure we wanted to know.

Pregnancies with six or more fetuses have a very low survival rate, and multiple birth babies are in great danger of being born prematurely with serious heart defects, cerebral palsy, blindness and other problems. Our phenomenal feeling of being "The Chosen" suddenly vanished into a frightening battle to save our babies' lives.

The doctor presented an alternative: a new procedure he called "fetal reduction." The procedure can be performed through the abdomen or the vagina. Ultrasound locates the amniotic sacs. Then one or more are selected to be injected with potassium chloride, causing the death of the embryo.

We were living a nightmare. We saw these babies, each and every one, as gifts from God, an answer to our prayers. How could we "terminate" their lives? My husband and I were quiet for a long time, searching our souls for an answer. What were we capable of handling? Six severely handicapped infants? Five or four? Six deaths? No. We couldn't do it Wouldn't do it…Not to us and, most of all not to them. Not if there was something else we could do to help them, any of them.

We knew what the Catholic Church would say. This was abortion, plain and simple. Our family had their opinions. Some said to keep them all; some said to have the reduction. This decision was so personal, my husband and I listened to no one but each other. We knew whatever we decided to do, our families would be supportive, and they were.

In my tenth week of pregnancy, I was scheduled for a fetal reduction. The next step was to decide how many fetuses to save. My doctor suggested twins. My choice was triplets, in case I miscarried one or two which is common with multiple births. Determined to save at least one baby, I was terrified. My husband became my lifeline in what seemed to me to be a world of science fiction. Another ultrasound was done to determine which three fetuses to leave. Basing his decision on their location in my uterus, the doctor made his selection.

Fetal reduction is not a common procedure, and Colombia Presbyterian is a teaching hospital. Each time I was there, I became a spectacle lying on that table. A lesson being taught. The day of the procedure, the house was packed with medical students. The doctor began with no anesthesia, telling me to try and relax. If I ever wished I could trade places with a doctor who told me to relax, it was then. I felt the needle penetrate and started to moan under the strain. Finally a medical student pleaded, "Can't you give her something?" So a doctor ran out and got me a tranquilizer. I closed my eyes and held on tightly to Bill's hand, the only familiar source of strength and comfort I could find. His voice repeated over and over," It's okay, Bet. It will be over soon" I tried not to watch the monitor, but I saw and felt the needle penetrate the wall of my uterus. One by one, I watched those three little flickers fade away. I prayed we had made the right choice.

The next few months were wonderful and terrifying. Bill and I were afraid to be happy, afraid that something would go wrong. But we knew in our hearts this time was different. I was off my feet from the middle of my fifth month. At that point, my uterus was stretched to the size of a normal nine-month pregnancy.

As time went by, I thought I would go crazy. I was home alone most of the day. When I started to have dreams about the people in the soap operas, I stopped watching TV. I tried to read, but I began having severe headaches. Bill often came home to find me sitting on the couch in total silence. By August 1 I was drinking about two quarts of milk a day and going to the bathroom so many times, I thought, "Why get up from here at all?" There were days I just couldn't move. The babies inside of me were very active. Bill and I enjoyed watching my stomach from one big round ball to three bulges. Something like a very large three-leaf clover.

During my 32nd week of pregnancy, my gums and nose began to bleed and my head to pound. At times my whole body seemed to throb. I began to get frightened. I had visions of lying on my bed and exploding. I wasn't sure how much more my body could take. During my weekly checkup, my doctor found proteins in my urine, and my blood pressure was much too high. He sent me from his office directly to the hospital.

I gave birth by Cesarean section on August 27, 1989, eight weeks early, to Thomas, 4 pounds 6 ounces; William, 4 pounds 4 ounces and Marissa, 3 pounds 12 ounces. Thomas was the biggest, but he was on a respirator for two days. The others just had to get to five pounds before they could leave the hospital.

I came home after a week, William a week later and Marissa two weeks after that. Thomas arrived at our house a couple of days after my original due date. By then William and Marissa were heavier than he was. We all felt bad about Thomas being in the hospital so long; I don't think we put him down for the first year of this life. Someone was always holding him. There was always another set of hands. I couldn't have gotten through that first year without the help of Bill's family and mine. That was how I survived. Everyone pitched in -they still do.

The children started pre-kindergarten this fall. Thomas is the most independent. He likes to take toys apart to see how they work. I'm told his father was the same way. Marissa was the last to walk-at 14 months. For a while she was overpowered by the boys, but when she became mobile, she took over. She's the dominant one now. She organizes their play. And William is ahead in school, knowing his letters and numbers before the others. He's also the biggest.

They fight about everything. It's a constant battle over who gets what and why, even if they have three identical toys. But they're very protective of each other too. William once hit a kid just because he was pushing Marissa. We tell them that they're special because they're triplets. But I don't think they understand what that means yet.

I do. I'll look at them and tell myself we made the right decision. They wouldn't be the way they are if we hadn't. Sometimes I look at their three faces and think of the three I don't have. I wonder what they would have been like.

As for Bill, he says he loves coming home. And I see it-he has a great relationship with the kids. They have so much fun together, sometimes I think I have four instead of three.

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