The clinic’s sterile smell doesn’t bother me as much anymore. It’s strange how quickly unfamiliar places become routine. Anh and I sit in the waiting room, and I scroll through the notes I’ve been keeping—every pill, every side effect, every question I want to ask.
Linh walks in with her usual calm smile. "Mai, Anh, how are you both doing? Ready to see Dr. Chen?"
I nod, already feeling more grounded just seeing her.
"You're doing well, Mai," she says, nodding with what looks like real approval. "But I can see you're still struggling to keep track of everything."
Linh leans in. "Actually, Dr. Chen, I wanted to suggest something that might help." Dr. Chen turns toward us. "There's a new AI-powered health app that I think could be really beneficial for you, Mai."
I sit up a little straighter. "An app? Like the period trackers?"
"Much more sophisticated," Linh pulls out her tablet. "This app is designed specifically for fertility treatments. It can help you manage your medication schedule, track symptoms, and even prepare questions for your appointments in Vietnamese."
Dr. Chen gives me an encouraging nod. "I've had other patients use it with great success. It can help bridge some of the communication gaps we've been experiencing."
As Linh walks us through it, something lights up in me. The app is clean and easy to use—no clutter, no tiny print to decode. Medication timelines, symptom tracking, appointment reminders… it’s all there, in both languages, side by side.
"The AI can analyze your inputs and provide personalized insights," Linh says. "It might notice patterns you miss and can alert you to potential issues before they become problems."
This is actually helpful, I think, surprised at how hopeful I feel. Not just because it’s smart, but because it feels like something made for people like me.
"Is it secure?" Anh asks, always thinking a few steps ahead.
Linh nods, already tapping through settings. She explains the encryption, the privacy measures, how nothing gets shared without our permission.
As she talks, I’m already imagining it—how this little app might weave itself into our daily rhythm, how it could take some of the weight off my shoulders.
By the time we leave, it’s downloaded on both our phones.
Over the next few weeks, it becomes second nature. I log my meds, my moods, every cramp and craving. The reminders pop up gently—no loud alarms, just soft nudges. When I’m feeling off, it offers breathing exercises or calming sounds. When I forget what to ask the doctor, it suggests questions based on my symptoms.
One evening, I’m curled up on the couch, scrolling through the cycle analysis. Graphs, predictions, little notes from the past few weeks. Something clicks. "Anh," I call, my voice a little louder than I meant it to be, "Đến đây xem này.” (come look at this.)
He leans over my shoulder, eyes scanning the screen. "Đây là gì vậy em?" (What am I looking at, em?)
"Là em đó," (It's me,) I say, almost in disbelief. "Nhứng dữ liệu này… như thể ứng dụng này còn hiểu em hơn cả chính em." (All of this data, these patterns... it's like the app knows my body better than I do now.) I place a hand gently on my belly, as if it can feel the shift too. "Cứ như em vừa là con người, vừa là công nghệ. Một cyborg hỗ trợ sinh sản," (It's like... like I'm part human, part technology. A fertility cyborg,) I say with a laugh, half joy, half relief.
Anh wraps his arm around me, pulling me close. "Chà, chắc chắn là em đang giao tiếp với công nghệ theo những cách mà chúng ta chưa từng nghĩ đến. Nhưng em vẫn là em, Mai. Ứng dụng này chỉ là một công cụ thôi." (Well, you're certainly interfacing with technology in ways we never imagined. But you're still you, Mai. The app is just a tool.)
I nod, but a small voice in the back of my mind isn’t so sure. Still, as the days pass, I find myself turning to the app more and more. It tracks my fertile window, picks up on small hormonal shifts, even recommends foods based on patterns I didn’t know were there.
It becomes like a quiet companion—guiding, teaching, noticing things I’ve missed.
At our next appointment, something shifts. I’m asking Dr. Chen real questions, talking through lab results like I actually understand them. I’m not just nodding anymore—I’m in it, fully.
"You've really taken to this technology," Dr. Chen says, eyebrows raised, a smile tugging at her lips.
I grin, feeling proud—like maybe I’ve finally caught up to this whole process. Anh’s brow tightens. "Đó là một câu hỏi hay. Anh nghĩ là nó chỉ được lưu trữ trên điện thoại em thôi." (That's a good question. I assumed it was just stored locally on your phone.)
That night, we sit at the kitchen table and scroll through the app’s privacy policy line by line. The language is polished, careful. But the more we read, the more uneasy I feel.
The data isn’t just sitting on our phones—it’s stored in the cloud, run through AI systems, used to “improve the user experience.” Whatever that means.
"Tất cả những dữ liệu riêng tư của em, hành trình tìm con của chúng ta… đang ở ngoài kia," (All this intimate data about my body, our fertility journey... it's out there,) I whisper, a cold ripple running through me.
Later, in bed, I lie awake staring at the ceiling. The app has become part of my routine, part of how I understand myself. It’s helped me track, learn, even hope.
But now I wonder—how much of me have I given away? Where does support end and surveillance begin?
I rest a hand gently on my belly. "Mẹ của con giờ là một một cyborg rồi, con yêu. Mẹ chỉ mong là mình đang đưa ra những sự lựa chọn đúng đắng cho chúng ta." (Your mom's a cyborg now, little one. I just hope I'm making the right choices for us both.)