I stare at the wall calendar, squinting at the mess of red dots. They’re scattered like dropped pins on a map—no clear route, no destination, just confusion. My period’s been doing its own thing for months now. I sigh, thumb hovering over the screen, then glance toward the living room. Anh’s hunched over his laptop, deep in some code or meeting or both. I hesitate. “Anh?” I call, softly, like I’m not sure if I’m interrupting or asking for help or both.
"Anh ơi," I say it quieter than I meant to, like the words got shy on their way out. " Anh có thể đến đây một chút được không?" (Can you come here for a minute?)
He shows up in the doorway a moment later, the glow from his laptop still clinging to his glasses.
"Có chuyện gì vậy em?" (What's up, em?) he asks, closing the lid like he knows it might take a while.
I pat the bed next to me. He sits down, leaning in as I hold up the calendar, my finger tracing the small squares.
“Chu kỳ của em rất bất thường. Em nghĩ là... Em nghĩ là có vấn đề gì đó không ổn." (Look. My periods... they're all over the place. I think... I think something might be wrong.)
Anh’s brow dips as he studies the calendar—his data-scientist brain probably already trying to find patterns where I see none.
"Em bị như thế này bao lâu rồi?" (How long has it been like this?)
"Được vài tháng rồi," (A few months now,) I admit. "Lúc đầu, em nghĩ là do căng thẳng vì chuyển nhà, anh thấy đấy, một đất nước mới, tất cả mọi thứ đều xa lạ. Nhưng em không thấy nó tốt hơn." (At first, I thought it was just stress from the move, you know? New country, new everything. But it's not getting better.)
He nods, slow and thoughtful, then reaches for my hand.
"Em nghĩ chúng ta nên đi khám bác sĩ không?" (Do you think we should see a doctor?)
My stomach tightens like it’s bracing for bad news.
"Em không biết," (I don't know,) I say, barely above a whisper. "Lỡ như là vấn đề gì nghiêm trọng thì sao? Nếu như..." (What if it's something serious? What if...) I stop there. The rest—the part I’m really scared to say—hangs heavy in the air. What if I can’t have kids?
Anh gives my hand a gentle squeeze.
"Em, em nhìn anh này," (Hey, look at me,) he says, soft and steady. I look up at him. His eyes are calm, kind. I nod, but the worry doesn’t let go. Not yet. "Bất kể như thế nào đi nữa, chúng ta sẽ cùng nhau đối mặt, được chứ? Nhưng chúng ta sẽ không biết chắc chắn điều gì cho đến khi mình đi kiểm tra." (Whatever it is, we'll face it together, okay? But we won't know anything for sure until we get it checked out.)
The thought of seeing a doctor feels both terrifying and like a small kind of relief. Maybe it’s time. Maybe I’m ready. "Nhưng mà hệ thống y tế ở đây… không giống ở quê nhà. Nếu em không giải thích rõ được tình trạng của mình thì sao? Nếu như bác sĩ không hiểu em đang nói gì thì sao?" (But the healthcare system here... it's so different from back home. What if I can't explain properly what's wrong? What if they don't understand me?)
"Em cũng đang muốn tìm bác sĩ mới mà," (You’ve been meaning to find a new doctor anyway,) Anh suggests. "Có thể họ sẽ giới thiệu cho mình một bác sĩ chuyên khoa nếu cần thiết. Anh sẽ đi gặp bác sĩ cùng em, anh có thể làm người phiên dịch cho em nếu cần." (They might be able to refer us to a specialist if needed. And I can come with you, help translate if necessary.)
But then again… we haven’t been here that long. Maybe my body’s still catching up—new country, new food, new everything. Maybe it just needs a little more time. "Em nên làm sao đây?" (What do you think I should do?) I ask Anh, torn between action and delay.
Anh doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at me, quiet and thoughtful. "Cơ thể của em, em hãy làm điều mà em cho là đúng. Nhưng em hãy nhớ rằng, đi kiểm tra sức khỏe không có nghĩa là chúng ta sẽ phải làm bất kỳ điều gì. Nó chỉ giúp chúng ta đưa ra phương án giải quyết thích hợp hơn thôi." (It's your body, em. You need to do what feels right for you. But remember, getting information doesn't commit us to anything. It just helps us make better decisions.)
I inhale slowly, trying to steady the flutter in my chest. This is a crossroads, isn’t it? Do I go ahead and call—open that door, step into the maze of forms, fees, and medical words I still have to Google? Or do I wait a little longer, hope my body finds its rhythm again on its own?
It feels big. Bigger than one appointment. Like whichever path I choose now will shape the next chapter—of our life here, of the family we’re trying to build, of me.
I sit there for a while, the phone in my lap, heart full of questions.
What if the answer changes everything? What if it doesn’t?