I got my results on Thursday.
It’s Monday.
And my doctor still hasn’t said a word.
No call.
No message.
No “I’ve reviewed your MRI, here’s what this means.”
Just silence.
The kind of silence that forces you to become your own doctor, your own advocate, your own interpreter of medical language that was never meant to be digested alone.
So that’s exactly what I did.
I opened my portal. I read every line. I reread it. I copied and pasted it. I sat with my husband, who has just enough clinical understanding to ground me, and leaned on AI to translate what felt like a foreign language into something human.
And somehow… between the two of them, I figured it out.
It’s a fibroid.
Just a fibroid.
Benign. Common. Annoying, yes. Complicating, maybe. But not catastrophic.
And I felt it instantly — that quiet exhale that comes when something you feared might be life-altering turns out to be… manageable.
Not easy. But manageable.
We can work around it. We can still move forward with IVF. It’s not the kind of diagnosis that shuts the door — it just makes the doorway narrower.
And after everything I’ve been through, narrower still feels like a path.
But here’s the thing that lingers.
What does it say about this clinic that I had to figure all of that out on my own?
Because this isn’t just about one delayed message. This feels like a preview.
A quiet, unsettling hint at what this experience might be like moving forward.
I’ve already heard the explanation:
“We’re in a rural area.”
“It’s hard to get attendings out here.”
And I’m sorry, but no.
I don’t accept that.
Because I came from a rural area. And in that rural area, I had care. Real care. Attentive, responsive, human care. When I was in cycle, I wasn’t left wondering. I wasn’t refreshing a portal like it held the answers to my future.
They showed up.
So to be here now, in another rural setting, being told this is just how it is… it feels misleading at best, negligent at worst.
Because fertility isn’t casual.
It’s not something you can put on hold emotionally while you wait for someone to get back to you when they have time.
It lives in your body. In your thoughts. In the way you wake up and the way you try to fall asleep at night.
And still… despite all of that, today surprised me.
I woke up… happy.
Not cautiously okay. Not forcing it. Actually happy.
And it almost made me suspicious of myself.
Because when you’ve been in survival mode long enough, joy feels unfamiliar. Like something you need to question instead of trust.
So I did something very on-brand for me.
I took an ovulation test.
And there it was. A surge.
Estrogen, doing what it does — lifting everything. Softening the edges of reality. Making the world feel a little more possible, a little more within reach.
And instead of overanalyzing it, I leaned in.
I let myself have the day.
I stayed home because it’s already 80 degrees, and my dogs — my girls — can’t tolerate anything past 71 without struggling. So I didn’t force a walk. I didn’t push productivity in the wrong direction.
I redirected it.
I cleaned the apartment — not in a rushed, frantic way, but in a way that felt grounding. Intentional. Like I was putting my world back into order, one small space at a time.
I made my daughter her first smoothie.
A random mix of fruit we somehow accumulated and a little bit of kale — because I accidentally bought kale instead of arugula, which feels very on-brand for this season of life.
And she loved it.
Like really loved it.
She sat there, this tiny human that I fought so hard to have, drinking something I made for her, discovering new flavors like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And I just watched her.
In awe.
Because somehow, in the middle of all this chaos… she is my clarity.
She went down for her nap, and I sat in her playroom, surrounded by toys, and I started thinking — not just about what she has, but what I want her to have.
What kind of childhood I want to build for her.
And I keep coming back to the same thing.
Simplicity.
Intention.
Imagination.
I don’t want a room full of plastic noise. I don’t want overstimulation disguised as entertainment.
I want her to think.
To create.
To turn a simple object into ten different stories.
Blocks.
Animals.
Objects that don’t tell her what they are — but let her decide.
Toys that grow with her instead of being outgrown in months.
It aligns with who I am, too. The version of me that’s trying — really trying — to be more minimal, more thoughtful, more aware of what we bring into our home.
Not boring. Never boring. But purposeful.
So I added a few of those pieces to her Baby Zola registry.
Small things.
Meaningful things.
The kind of toys that don’t expire.
And the mattress is still there.
The one I think about more than I’d like to admit.
The one that represents her next phase — her independence, her transition, her becoming.
I’m working toward it. Actively. Intentionally. Hoping to make it happen by the end of the month… maybe even as a quiet gift to myself, because my birthday is coming up.
Thirty-eight.
A number that feels both empowering and… loud.
Especially when fertility is part of your story.
Because time doesn’t whisper in this space. It echoes.
But today, I’m choosing something different.
I’m choosing to sit in the relief that it’s “just a fibroid.”
I’m choosing to acknowledge the frustration without letting it consume me.
I’m choosing to let the estrogen carry me, just a little, into a version of myself that feels capable again.
And most of all… I’m choosing to stay here.
In this moment.
With my daughter.
In this home I’m building.
In this life that is messy and uncertain and still, somehow, incredibly beautiful.
Even if no one called to tell me that everything was going to be okay.
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UPDATED BIO:
Hi, I’m Fiona — a writer in the midst of an unexpected chapter.
In April 2024, I lost my job. Since then, my husband and I have been getting by on his modest income as a medical resident. After stepping away from IVF, we were shocked — and overjoyed — to find out we were pregnant naturally. While it was the happiest surprise, it also brought new financial stress as we prepared for our growing family.
Then, our baby arrived early — on April 29th, 2025, instead of the expected due date in late May. With no paid maternity leave and no room in our budget for childcare, I’ve returned to part-time jobs and writing just a week after giving birth to help cover essentials like groceries, bills, and a few things for our 🌈 miracle baby.
If you’d like to support my writing — and by extension, our little family — your kindness would mean the world. Every bit helps: $1, $2, whatever you can give.
🍼 Baby Registry — Or if you’d prefer to help more directly, we’re also gratefully accepting support through our baby registry — every burp cloth, diaper and/or bottle goes a long way.
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Read also: Two Days After Bringing Our Baby Home, I Asked for a Divorce
Read also: Our Marriage Ended Before It Began: The Pregnancy That Shattered Everything
Read also: I’m Pregnant And Broke — My Cry For Help
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Ryan Kwok on Unsplash
