After weeks of research and a lot of late-night scrolling, I finally make the decision: it’s time for a second opinion. But not just anyone—I want a doctor who understands more than just the science. Someone who might understand me.
It takes a while, but we find her—Dr. Nguyen, a Vietnamese American gynecologist with glowing reviews. The moment the receptionist answers the phone in both English and Vietnamese, I feel something loosen in my chest.
On the day of the appointment, Anh takes time off work to come with me. We sit in the waiting room, soft music playing, watercolor paintings of Hội An and Hạ Long Bay on the walls. I squeeze his hand. Just being here already feels different.
Dr. Nguyen greets us in Vietnamese, her voice warm and familiar.
"So, Mai,” she says, switching to English but speaking slowly, clearly, like she wants to make space for me to follow. "Tell me what's been going on."
With Anh beside me and the comfort of knowing I can slip back into Vietnamese if I need to, I finally let it all out—my irregular cycles, the mood swings, the breakouts, the fertility struggles, the thyroid diagnosis that never sat right.
She listens closely, asking questions, nodding as I speak. Then she examines me, gently, and orders a full round of labs.
When she returns with the results, there’s something serious in her eyes, but not cold. She sits across from us, hands folded. "Mai, Anh, based on your symptoms and these test results, I don't believe you have a thyroid disorder. What you're experiencing is consistent with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, or PCOS."
I glance at Anh. That same tight feeling rises in my chest, part fear, part… something like I knew it. "What does this mean?" I ask, my voice low but steady.
Dr. Nguyen walks us through everything—PCOS, step by step. She keeps her words clear, simple, like she’s building a bridge just for me. She even sketches little diagrams on a notepad as she talks—hormones, insulin, ovaries that don’t want to cooperate.
Anh leans forward. "What about having a baby?" His voice is quiet, careful.
Dr. Nguyen nods, not in a scary way, but like she understands exactly what we’re really asking. "Given that you've been trying to conceive for a while now, I think it would be best to refer you to a fertility specialist. They can provide more targeted treatments and give you the best chance of success."
We leave with a referral to a fertility clinic and a folder of notes. As we step out into the parking lot, the sun feels too bright, like the day has cracked open something new.
As we walk to the car, Anh looks over at me. “Em ổn chứ?" (Are you okay?)
I nod, the smile that comes to my lips small but real. "Vâng ạ. Có rất nhiều thứ để tiếp thu, nhưng… em mừng vì bây giờ chúng ta biết mình đang phải đối mặt với điều gì. Và em vui vì có anh bên cạnh." (Yes. It's a lot to take in, but... I'm glad we know what we're dealing with now. And I'm glad you're here with me.)
He pulls me into a hug, arms warm around me, the kind that says we’ve got this. "Anh luôn sẵn sàng, em. Chúng ta sẽ cùng nhau vượt qua." (Always, em. We're in this together.)
On the drive home, the city blurs past the window, but my mind’s already jumping ahead—fertility clinic, next appointments, maybe more tests, maybe hard conversations.
But this time, I don’t feel so scared.
With a name for what’s been happening to my body, with a doctor who actually sees me—and with Anh holding my hand through it all—I feel ready.
We’re not at the finish line, not even close. But for the first time in a long time, I believe we’re finally starting in the right place.