We start our second IUI cycle with a different energy—not desperate hope, but determined persistence. This time, Dr. Lopez recommends injectable hormones instead of pills. An upgrade to the system. More sophisticated bio-modification.
"These injections will stimulate your ovaries to produce multiple eggs," she explains, gesturing to the small army of vials and needles spread across the counter. "It increases your chances, but it also means more appointments and closer monitoring. You'll need to come in every other day."
I nod, taking in the sight of the syringes. It feels like another level of commitment, another step deeper into the cyborg transformation. Another protocol in the ongoing merger of flesh and technology.
That night, I stand in our bathroom—the one in our Chicago rental that's slowly starting to feel like home—holding the needle like it might bite me.
"Well," I say, wincing as I inject the first dose, "Alabama tried to make this illegal. Guess I'm becoming the cyborg they feared."
Marcus watches from the doorway, arms crossed, his expression a mixture of worry and something that looks like recognition. "My wife, the fertility cyborg." he says softly.
I laugh, but it comes out shaky. "Fertility cyborg sounds better than 'desperate woman injecting herself in a bathroom.' But if I'm getting system upgrades, I want more than just egg production."
He walks over and wraps his arms around me from behind. "You already have them. Look how far we've come. Look what you've survived. Look what you're becoming."
Over the next weeks, we settle into a rhythm that would have been impossible in Alabama—shots in the morning, clinic visits every other day, blood work, ultrasounds. I become oddly efficient at the injections, though it's not bravery driving me. It's muscle memory mixed with stubborn hope. But the constant monitoring wears on me. My body feels more like a project than a home. More like a machine being optimized than a woman being loved.
During one appointment, Dr. Lopez points at the ultrasound screen with genuine excitement. "See here? Multiple follicles. You're responding beautifully."
I stare at the screen, watching my ovaries light up in grayscale. "It's amazing," I say quietly, "but surreal. Like I'm watching my own body become a science experiment."
She gives me a kind look. "Remember—we're not replacing anything natural. We're just giving nature some very sophisticated help."
Later, back home, I say to Marcus, "Part of me feels powerful—like we took control of something that felt impossible in Alabama. But another part... I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I've outsourced my body to medicine."
He thinks for a moment. "I get that. But I don't think you're losing yourself. Maybe you're just becoming the version of you strong enough to fight for what we want. Maybe this is what evolution looks like when it's chosen rather than imposed."
The two-week wait is its own special kind of purgatory. Every cramp feels significant. Every lack of symptom feels ominous. I try not to read meaning into everything, but I always do. The cyborg learns to interpret its own signals, to decode the language of hope and disappointment written in hormones and symptoms.
The morning of the pregnancy test, my hands won't stop shaking. Marcus sits beside me in Dr. Lopez's office, solid and quiet.
She walks in, and I know before she opens her mouth.
"I'm sorry," she says gently. "The result was negative."
It doesn't surprise me, but it still hits like a weight dropping in my chest. Marcus pulls me close, and I feel the disappointment radiating from him too. The system has failed again. The upgrade was insufficient.
After a moment, Dr. Lopez speaks again. "I know this is difficult. But given your history and the fact that we've now completed two IUI cycles, I think it's time we seriously discuss IVF."
IVF. The word that Alabama made legally dangerous. The treatment that forced us to abandon our old life. The final transformation protocol.
I look at Marcus, seeing my own thoughts reflected in his tired eyes. We've come this far. We've sacrificed this much. We've become this much.
"What would that involve?" I ask, surprised by how steady my voice sounds.
"It's more intensive, more expensive," Dr. Lopez explains. "More medications, more monitoring, egg retrieval, fertilization in the lab, then embryo transfer. But the success rates are significantly higher for someone your age. And it's completely legal and protected. You'd have full control over your embryos, your choices, your timeline."
The difference feels monumental. In Alabama, IVF would have made us potential criminals. Here, it's simply another medical option. Here, it's citizenship in the post-natural world.
IVF. Bigger. Scarier. But maybe our best chance. The ultimate cyborg protocol.
I don't say yes. Not yet. I just hold Marcus's hand and let myself breathe.
Tomorrow, we'll figure out our next step. Not today. Today, we grieve a little. But tomorrow... tomorrow we decide how much more we're willing to become.