(1998, near Damascus, Syria) -- Several months later, we finish our contract with the school and pack up and leave Syria.
(1998, Denver) -- Back in the US, I can’t bear to go through fertility treatments again. I can’t bear to hope again.
We keep ourselves occupied by fixing up our old Victorian home and getting re-established in our jobs. Forgetting the sting of Hope (that bi+ch), two years later we dip our toes into IF waters again and check with a Denver reproductive endocrinologist. After all, there may have been medical advances since our first try, and we may not have received top-of-the-line treatment by our German-educated Lebanese embryologist in Syria.
But no such luck. With single-digit odds of success, all donor material, lots of meds, hassle and moolah, we might be able to achieve pregnancy -- if you factor in a miracle. We have only one wad to shoot (financially speaking), and it looks like deciding on another IF treatment would be like betting your 401K on a ground sloth that somehow wandered onto the track at Belmont.
I am still so sad that I won’t get to see what a mixture of Roger and me will look like. From the day I met him, I envisioned passing on his beautiful blue eyes to our baby. My talent for music, his sense of adventure, our love of books. I have melded our features together in my mind and come up with dozens of dazzling permutations.
This dream will never be realized. This dream will never be realized. This dream will never be realized.
I have to keep telling myself in order to let go. Such a firmly rooted dream is not easy to pull up and discard.
My pillow is wet for months on end.