I decide to trust Dr. Johnson—for now. She’s the one with the degree, the experience. I’m still figuring out how this whole system even works. "Okay," I say, nodding, though it comes out more like a question than a statement. "What do we do next?"
Dr. Johnson gives a small smile, like I passed a test. "We'll start you on a comprehensive treatment plan," she says, walking me through the plan. "The goal is to bring your thyroid hormone levels back to normal and manage your symptoms."
She outlines the treatment protocol:
1. "Now that you have been taking Methimazole for a few weeks, we will check your levels and see if anything has changed "
2. "We might consider radioactive iodine treatment down the line. It's a more permanent solution that targets the overactive thyroid cells."
3. "I'm also going to prescribe a beta-blocker. This will help manage some of your symptoms, especially if you're experiencing a rapid heart rate."
4. "Lastly, we'll need to monitor your progress closely. You'll have regular blood tests to check your thyroid hormone levels, and we'll adjust your medication as needed."
My brain tries to keep up, but the words start to blur. Dosage. Labs. Hormone levels. Take it before eating. Recheck in six weeks. "And this will help with... with having a baby?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can overthink it.
Dr. Johnson nods like everything is going according to plan. "Once we get your thyroid levels under control, it should improve your chances of conception. Thyroid issues can definitely impact fertility, but they're manageable."
I leave the clinic with a small pharmacy in my bag and a calendar packed with follow-ups. That evening, I walk Anh through it all. He listens carefully, but I can see it in his eyes—that quiet concern he doesn’t say out loud.
"Em chắc chắn chứ?" (Are you sure about this, em?) Anh’s voice is soft when he asks, almost like he’s afraid the question might tip me over. " Trong có vẻ như là rất nhiều loại thuốc mạnh." (It seems like a lot of powerful medications.)
I nod, slow and small, hoping he can’t see how unsure I really am. "Bác sĩ Johnson biết cô ấy đang làm gì mà. Và nếu đây là điều cần thiết để bắt đầu gia đình, thì em sẵn sàng thử." (Dr. Johnson knows what she's doing. And if this is what it takes to start our family, then I'm willing to try.)
The next few weeks, I follow everything by the book. I take my meds on time—even when they make me dizzy or nauseous. The beta-blockers calm the racing in my chest, something I didn’t even realize was part of this until it wasn’t anymore.
Every blood test feels like a coin toss—hope on one side, fear on the other. Dr. Johnson says my numbers are moving in the right direction. But my periods? Still scattered. Still unpredictable.
When I bring it up, she smiles gently and reassures me that my body is adjusting.
Two months in, I’m sitting on the bathroom floor again, another negative pregnancy test in my hand.
The pills have helped some things. But the thing I care about most—the reason I started all of this—is still the same.
I think back to that first appointment. Should I have asked more? Pushed harder? Found someone who speaks my language—not just Vietnamese, but the language of me, of all these quiet symptoms I’m not sure I ever described well enough?
I glance at the row of pill bottles on the counter, labels in English, answers still blurry.
Am I helping myself… or making things worse by treating something I might not even have?
What now? Do I keep going with Dr. Johnson’s plan—or do I finally listen to that small, stubborn voice inside me saying: maybe it’s time to get a second opinion?