The next few weeks blur together in a whirlwind of medical preparation. The hysteroscopy reveals some remaining scar tissue, which Dr. Lopez carefully removes—cleaning the pathways, optimizing the system. Then we start the ovulation induction medications, and the side effects hit me hard—mood swings, hot flashes, headaches that throb like my skull's too small for my thoughts.
Nothing about this process feels particularly sacred or romantic. When the time comes for Marcus to provide his contribution, we navigate the awkwardness with nervous laughter and whispered reassurances. Love gets technologized, intimacy gets scheduled, hope gets medicalized.
On the drive to the clinic, the little container sits between us like precious cargo.
I glance at Marcus and let out a sudden laugh.
"What?" he asks, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary.
I shake my head, grinning through my nervousness. "Just... this is definitely not the baby-making story we're telling our kid someday."
He laughs too, tension finally cracking. "Nah," he says. "We'll come up with something better. Something about love finding a way through the machine."
At the clinic, things move efficiently. The IUI procedure is over almost before I can process it—uncomfortable, clinical, but manageable. Nothing compared to what we've already survived. The cyborg accepts the upgrade. The system integrates new data.
Walking out, I grab Marcus's hand. "Now we wait."
And we do. Two long weeks of analyzing every twitch, every cramp, every absence of symptoms. I try not to Google everything, but who am I kidding? My brain turns every sensation into a prophecy of hope or doom. The body becomes a text to be read, interpreted, decoded.
Marcus, steady as always, keeps me grounded. He prays with me. Makes dinner when I'm too anxious to cook. Refuses to let hope become a burden.
The day of the test arrives, and we're back in Dr. Lopez's office. My heart pounds so loud I can barely hear anything else.
She walks in, and I know before she says a word. There's gentleness in her expression, but not joy.
"I'm sorry," she says, and just like that, the fragile hope I'd been protecting starts to crack. "The result was negative. But this was just round one. Most couples need several attempts."
I nod, swallowing hard against the familiar taste of disappointment. "So... what now?"
She lays it out—another IUI cycle, or stepping up to IVF. More money. More medications. More everything. But also, more chances. More opportunities for the system to learn, adapt, succeed.
In the parking lot, the late afternoon light feels heavier than when we arrived.
I look over at Marcus. "Do we try IUI again? Or is it time to consider IVF?"
He's quiet for a long moment, then: "Let's try one more IUI cycle. We figured out the process once. Maybe the second time's different. Maybe the machine just needs calibration."
I nod, not because I'm sure, but because I still have fight left. "Okay. One more round."
"And if it doesn't work..."
"We'll cross that bridge," he finishes, pulling me close in the middle of the parking lot.
Standing there, I realize: whatever we face next, we're not facing it alone. And we're facing it somewhere we're allowed to fight. Somewhere we're allowed to become.