It's summer in 1996, and Roger and I are coming up on our 1st anniversary. In addition, we are heading off on a adventure: selling or storing all of our possessions and moving to the Middle East for two years. We’ll be teaching at an international school in Syria.
While we aren’t trying to get pregnant, we aren’t trying not to. It finally dawns on us that nature should have taken its course by now. A routine trip to my doctor leads to a hysterosalpingogram (as much fun to endure as it is to spell) and lots of questions by a Denver fertility doctor about family history, hormonal clues, etc.
Time is running out for any state-side diagnosis or treatment –- we are to leave for Syria in mid-August. On top of this, my younger sister just found out that she was pregnant with her second baby. She is not pleased – her son is only 9 months old and a new baby doesn’t fit in with her plans yet. We cry in our soup together about the absurdity of her feast and my famine. (By the way, a few months later, her “feast” turns out to be twins).