The kitchen counter is a mess—pill bottles, folded pamphlets, sticky notes with scribbled instructions. I stand there staring at it all, the confidence I felt at Dr. Chen’s office unraveling fast.
I pick up the Letrozole bottle, turning it in my hand. The label blurs—milligrams, timings, abbreviations I thought I understood but now just feel like static.
When do I start this one again? Day three? Day five? And how does it line up with the Metformin? My stomach tightens.
"Anh," I call out, voice tighter than I mean it to be. "Anh có thể giúp em được không?" (Can you help me with this?)
He walks in, eyebrows knitting the second he sees the countertop. "Có chuyện gì vậy em?" (What's wrong, em?)
I throw my hands up, overwhelmed. "Em không thể… Em không hiểu. Hoàn toàn là tiếng Anh, và là từ chuyên môn. Nhỡ như em uống sai thì sao? Nhỡ như em làm hỏng liệu trình trị liệu thì sao?" (I can't... I don't understand. Everything's in English, and it's all so technical. What if I take something wrong? What if I mess up the whole treatment?)
Anh picks up one of the papers and starts reading, his eyes darting across the text. "Những thứ này thật là phức tạp," (This is really complicated,) he says, frowning.. "Ngay cả anh cũng khó mà hiểu được." (Even I'm having trouble following it.)
We spend the next hour huddled at the table, flipping through instructions, checking medical sites, even pasting chunks into online translators. The more we read, the messier it gets—timing, dosages, side effects in tiny font. Everything feels urgent and unclear.
"Có lẽ là chúng ta nên làm một thời gian biểu," (Maybe we should create a schedule,) Anh says, already reaching for his laptop. "Chúng ta có thể sắp xếp lời nhắc cho từng loại thuốc, từng cuộc hẹn." (We can set up reminders for each medication, each appointment.)
I nod, grateful, but the knot in my stomach won’t budge. " Nhưng mà nhỡ như chúng ta làm sai thì sao? Hay là chúng ta hiểu sai điều gì đó quan trọng thì sao?" (But what if we get it wrong? What if we misunderstand something important?)
When I glance at Anh’s face, it looks just like mine—tight with worry. "Em nói đúng. Chúng ta cần được giúp đỡ trong việc này. Anh sẽ gọi cho phòng khám vào ngày mai." (You're right. We need help with this. I'm going to call the clinic tomorrow.)
The next morning, Anh gets through to Dr. Chen and explains everything. To my surprise, she’s calm about it. She doesn’t make us feel dumb or dramatic—just... human.
"Bác sĩ Chen đề nghị thêm một người hướng dẫn y tế song ngữ," (Dr. Chen suggested adding a bilingual healthcare navigator to your care team,) Anh says after the call. "Người đó có thể giải thích mọi thứ bằng tiếng Việt và giúp mình quản lý kế hoạch đièu trị luôn." (Someone who can explain everything in Vietnamese and help us manage the treatment plan.)
Relief floods my chest, followed quickly by something sharper. "Tại sao họ không nói mình biết sớm hơn? Chúng ta đã phải chật vật với điều này suốt thời gian qua..." (Why didn't they offer this before? We've been struggling all this time...)
Anh nods and squeezes my hand. " Anh hiểu. Anh cũng hỏi như vậy. Đấy là một dịch vụ họ cung cấp, tuy nghiên, nó cần phải được bệnh nhân yêu cầu. Họ sẽ cố gắng làm cho nó được phổ biến rộng rãi hơn." (I know. I asked the same thing. Apparently, it's a service they offer, but patients need to request it. They're going to work on making it more widely known.)
A few days later, we meet Linh—our new healthcare navigator. She’s soft-spoken, steady, and kind in a way that makes me want to cry a little. She walks us through every pill bottle, every instruction sheet, translating everything into Vietnamese and breaking it down in ways that actually make sense.
"Hãy xem Letrozole như một chất xúc tác để đánh thức buồnd trứng," (Think of Letrozole as waking up your ovaries,) Linh says, sketching a simple diagram of the cycle. "Chị sẽ uống vào năm ngày đầu chu kỳ. Sau đó, chúng ta sẽ đi siêu âm để xem các nang trứng của chị phát triển như thế nào." (You'll take it for five days at the start of your cycle. Then we'll use ultrasounds to see how your follicles are growing.)
She helps us put together a color-coded calendar—green for medications, blue for symptoms to watch, pink for appointments. Suddenly, the chaos on our kitchen counter feels like a plan.
"Hãy gọi hoặc nhắn tin cho em khi cần, đừng ngại," (Don't hesitate to call or message me if you have any questions,) Linh says before she leaves. "Vì đó là lý do em ở đây." (That's what I'm here for.)
When the door closes behind her, I turn to Anh. I can feel it—the weight that’s been pressing on my chest for weeks, finally easing.
"Đây là một sự thay đổi lớn," (This is going to make such a difference,) I say quietly.
Anh nods and wraps me in a hug, and this time, I let myself fully sink into it. "Đúng vậy. Thật tốt nếu chúng ta biết về nó ngay từ đầu." (It is. I just wish we'd known about it from the start.)
There’s still frustration, still grief for how hard it’s been just to get here. But there’s also something else now: a sense that we’re finally supported. Seen.
I glance at our new calendar taped to the fridge, all those colored boxes suddenly holding so much meaning. The technology, the meds, the apps—they’re not just tools. They’re part of the map now, guiding us toward something we’ve wanted for so long.
I rest a hand on my belly, close my eyes.
Please, I whisper, not to anyone in particular—just to the quiet space between hope and science.
With Anh beside me, with Linh in our corner, and with all this care finally aligned—maybe, just maybe, our baby isn’t so far away.