The familiar clinical smell hits me as we walk into Harmony Fertility Clinic for our follow-up appointment, but this time it doesn't make my stomach clench with dread. We're not here because we're running from something—we're here because we're running toward it.
Dr. Lopez greets us with her usual warm professionalism and settles us into her office. She flips through my chart, and I can see her processing not just the medical history, but the whole story—the move, the legal persecution, the way trauma and hope have tangled together in our bodies.
"I want to walk you through the plan I'm recommending," she says, her tone steady and reassuring. "First, a hysteroscopy. We'll insert a small camera through your cervix to check for scar tissue from your fibroid surgery. If there's any, we can usually remove it during the same procedure."
I nod, already feeling the weight of it, but also something else—gratitude that we're in a place where this conversation can happen at all.
"Once you've healed, we'll move on to medications—Clomid or Letrozole—to help you ovulate. But instead of just timing intercourse, I recommend combining it with IUI. That way, we place Marcus's strongest sperm directly into your uterus at ovulation."
Marcus shifts beside me, and I can feel his internal tension. We've come so far, but the clinical nature of it all still challenges something deep in his faith. Something that resists the merger of flesh and technology, the transformation of love into procedure.
"Could we just try the medications and... do it naturally?" he asks. "That's how it's supposed to happen. And after everything we've spent just getting here..."
Dr. Lopez nods with understanding. "Absolutely valid. But with Aisha's history of scarring, natural conception may be more difficult. IUI gives us better odds—by bypassing the cervix, we avoid potential barriers for the sperm. With timed intercourse alone, your success rate is 8 to 10 percent per cycle. IUI could double or triple that."
She pauses, looking at both of us. "I know it's a lot—emotionally and financially. But this plan gives you the strongest start after everything you've been through."
Marcus takes my hand. "So what are our realistic chances?"
"There's definitely a path forward," she says gently. "But we have to take it one step at a time. If this doesn't work, we might consider IVF—which, thankfully, is fully legal and protected here in Illinois."
The reminder hits differently than it would have six months ago. Legal and protected. The words feel like a gift. The words feel like citizenship in a country that recognizes our right to become.
We leave with a folder of paperwork and a list of tests, but also with something we'd lost in Alabama: agency. The power to choose our path forward without looking over our shoulders. The right to engineer our own evolution.
Outside the clinic, Marcus exhales slowly, watching his breath fog in the Chicago cold. "I think we should try the medications first. I dislike the idea of conception happening through a catheter. That's not how babies are supposed to be made."
I don't answer right away, feeling the weight of his words and the familiar pull between his faith and my desperation. When I do, my voice carries a new kind of resolve. "I hear you, Marcus. But we didn't uproot our whole lives to take half-measures. We left everything behind so we could have real choices, not just the safe ones."
He shifts beside me, jaw tight. "I know. I just need to feel like we're still honoring something sacred in all this."
"Then let's honor it by not giving up," I say, reaching for his hand. "Let's give ourselves the best chance. Sacred doesn't have to mean powerless. Maybe the sacred is learning to work with the machine instead of against it."
He nods slowly, eyes reflecting that familiar mix of resolve and uncertainty. "Alright," he says. "We'll try it."