—Physicians’ charter Sonia and I’d had a hard time conceiving, but not because of a lack of diligence. We tried everything: ovulation sensors, Kokopelli figurines, yoga, meditation, Clomid, Pergonal, intrauterine injections, in vitro fertilization (IVF), even mystical appeals to a Hindu guru (who confidently predicted we would have two boys). Nothing worked. The failures left us feeling tense and frustrated. In early 2003, at the midway point of my fellowship and shortly after our third unsuccessful attempt at IVF, we went on vacation to the Caribbean island of Anguilla. We both needed a break. We had been trying to get pregnant for over two years—Sonia was now thirty-two, and I was thirty-four—and we were quietly panicking that our efforts had become futile. One afternoon shortly after we arrived, I went for a walk alone on the sun-swept beach, where I met a shirtless loafer named Clement Clemons. He was tall and handsome, with brown dreadlocks emanating from his red bandanna and a quiet, dignified island air.
