The doctor’s office is bright and cold. I sit on the edge of the exam table, the paper beneath me crackles every time I shift. My palms are damp. The smell of antiseptic clings to everything.
"Well, Mai," Dr. Johnson walks in, white coat crisp, clipboard tucked under one arm. I sit up straighter, trying to look calm, even though my stomach’s tight with nerves, “based on your symptoms- irregular cycles, mood swings and fatigue- and the blood work, it looks like you're dealing with a thyroid disorder."
I blink. “Thyroid?”
I say it again, slower this time. The word feels strange in my mouth. I’d read about PCOS, even endometriosis—but this? This wasn’t part of the plan.
She nods, launching into an explanation about hormones and metabolism. I try to follow, but her words come fast, wrapped in long terms I can’t unpack quick enough. Hypothyroidism. Levothyroxine. I catch them, but don’t understand them.
"Do you have any questions?" she asks, finally looking up.
My mind is spinning, but English feels out of reach. I can’t pin my thoughts down into the right words. "This... affect baby?" I manage, motioning vaguely to my belly, to all the worry sitting there.
Dr. Johnson’s expression softens, just a little. The kind of look that says she understands, or at least she’s trying to. "Thyroid issues can impact fertility, yes. But with proper medication, many women with hypothyroidism are able to conceive and have healthy pregnancies."
She scribbles something on a small square of paper, then tears it off and hands it to me. "We'll start you on a low dose of Methimazole. Take it every morning on an empty stomach. We'll check your levels again in about six weeks and adjust the dose if needed."
I nod, holding the prescription like it’s something solid in all this uncertainty. A diagnosis. A plan. It should feel like progress. And it does—kind of. But there’s a flicker of doubt I can’t quite shake. Like maybe I didn’t say enough. Or maybe she didn’t hear it all. Maybe something got lost between my English and her fast explanations.
Back at home, I hand the paper to Anh and try to walk him through what the doctor said. He listens closely, brow creased, nodding at all the right parts.
"Anh nghĩ sao?" (What do you think?) I ask, searching his face for something—understanding, confidence, anything I can borrow.
Anh takes a breath, slow and thoughtful. " Anh không chắc. Thật tốt khi chúng ta được chuẩn đoán, nhưng…" (I'm not sure, em. It's good we have a diagnosis, but...)
"Nhưng?" (But?) I ask, my voice quieter this time, like maybe if I say it softly, the answer will feel softer too.
"Nhưng anh thắc mắc liệu chúng ta đã hiểu tất cả chưa. Có thể chúng ta vẫn nên tìm hiểu thêm, để đảm bảo rằng mình hiểu rõ hơn về tình trạng tuyết giáp này?" (But I wonder if we fully understood everything. Maybe we should do some research, make sure we understand this thyroid condition better?)
A part of me wants to believe it’s all figured out now—that this little white slip of paper will fix it. But another part, the one that’s been tracking every symptom, every off day, every late period… that part isn’t so sure.
"Hay là," (Or,) Anh keeps going, saying out loud the thing I’ve been too scared to name. "có lẽ chúng ta nên xin thêm ý kiến. Để chắc chắn." (maybe we should get a second opinion. Just to be sure.)
I bite my lip, the question tugging at both sides of me. Do I learn everything I can about thyroid issues, trust what Dr. Johnson said, trust that this prescription is the answer? Or do I follow that uneasy feeling in my chest—the one that wonders if a second opinion, maybe with a doctor who speaks Vietnamese, might help me explain things better… be understood better?
The choice feels heavy. Not just medical, but personal. Like whichever road I take now will shape everything—my body, our future, maybe even the baby we keep dreaming about.
I take a slow breath, let it fill the quiet. I don’t have all the answers. But I know I can’t keep standing still.