Page 74 of Office Hours
“That’s your uterus,” she says, pointing. “And here—” she circles an area with the mouse, “—are the fibroids.”
I squint at the screen, trying to make sense of it. It looks like a storm cloud, with white specks floating in the gray.
“Are they bad?” I ask.
She clicks again, zooming in. “You have three, moderately-sized. There’s some distortion of the uterine cavity, but nothing we can’t work with. I’ve seen much worse.”
She withdraws the wand (mercifully fast), then helps me sit up. “Okay, you can get dressed. I’ll give you a moment, and then we’ll talk options.”
She leaves me with a box of tissues and a sense of vertigo, like the world just tilted sideways. I clean myself up and pull on my leggings, hands shaking so much I can barely manage the zipper.
When Dr. Patel returns, she’s holding a stack of pamphlets and a notepad. She sits across from me, crossing her legs at the ankle.
“There are a few ways to treat fibroids,” she says, drawing a little diagram on the pad. “Medication, minimally invasive surgery, or sometimes just monitoring, if the symptoms aren’t too bad.”
She slides the diagram over to me. It shows a normal uterus, then one with fibroids bulging out. “The main concern is fertility,” she says. “But with advances in surgery, we can often remove or shrink the fibroids without damaging the uterus.”
I stare at the paper, trying to make the words stick. “Really? So I could actually get pregnant?”
Dr. Patel looks me straight in the eye. “With the right treatment, yes. I won’t lie—there are no guarantees, and even after removing fibroids, some of my patients have had difficulty conceiving. But I also have patients with similar cases who have carried healthy pregnancies.”
The words land like a punch. For years, I’ve thought of my insides as a biological dumpster fire—something to be workedaround, not with. The idea that I could someday grow a kid in there is so foreign, I can barely process it.
Dr. Patel sees the panic on my face and softens her tone. “I don’t want you to feel pressured. You’re young, and we can take this as fast or as slow as you like. If you want to talk to a counselor, or even just come back for another exam in a few months, that’s perfectly fine.”
I nod, then shake my head, then nod again. “I just…I didn’t think it was possible to get pregnant.”
She smiles, not a fake doctor smile but a real, human one. “I’m not sure who told you that. Possible doesn’t always mean easy, but it’s not impossible. You have options, Simone, and you’re lucky because medicine has developedminimally-invasive laparoscopic, robotic, or hysteroscopic technologies for addressing fibroids which preserve the uterus for future pregnancy. It’s a brave new world out there.”
She hands me the stack of pamphlets, each one brighter and more optimistic than the last. There’s a flyer for a support group, a card with her direct line, and a little post-it that just says “You’re not broken.”
I laugh, even though my eyes are burning. “Thank you,” I say. “Seriously.”
She stands, opens the door, and says, “Take care of yourself, okay?”
I walk out into the hallway on rubber legs. The nurse at the desk smiles and says, “All set?” I nod, voice gone, and drift back to the waiting room.
Andie’s still there, but her posture has changed—she’s leaning forward, elbows on knees, phone forgotten. When she sees me, she stands and rushes over.
“Well?” she says, searching my face.
“I’m not broken,” I whisper, and the words are so small I’m not sure she hears them. But she hugs me anyway, arms tight around my ribs, and for a second I almost believe it.
We leave together, the cold outside a relief. I clutch the pamphlets to my chest, feeling lighter and heavier all at once.
In the car, Andie puts a hand on my knee and says, “Want to get pancakes?” like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I nod, and we drive off, the engine rumbling under us, the sky bruised and beautiful.
For the first time in years, there’s something like hope in my chest.
But it’s still tangled up with everything else.
Especially him.
This isthe last place I want to be right now. The Grind is loud, even at the weird post-lunch, pre-dinner hour. Maybe it’s the finals energy, maybe just everyone’s last-minute caffeine panic, but there are students jammed into every booth and camped out on the sagging armchairs like they own the place. The espresso machine is going full throat, steaming and hissing in bursts, and the air smells like burnt sugar and overworked bodies.
I’m not sure why I’m here. No, that’s a lie—I know exactly why, and it’s the kind of reason that makes you question your own self-respect. Dylan sent four texts and a DM in the past 48 hours. They all said basically the same thing:Can we talk? I’m sorry. It’s important. Please.
