Page 74 of Where She Belongs
Dr. Reyes looks up from her tablet, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “I see. Well, we’ll run the standard panel just to be safe.” She pauses, studying me. “You seem... different since your last visit. In a good way.”
I’m saved from responding by her next question. “Any family planning considerations I should know about? Now that you’re starting a new chapter?”
The question catches me off guard. “I haven’t really thought about it,” I say honestly. Though now, with Gabe in the picture—Gabe, who’s ten years younger, who may want children someday—perhaps I should.
“It’s worth considering,” she says gently. “You’re forty-three, which certainly doesn’t close the door, but it does change the parameters. If it’s something you’re thinking about, even as a possibility, we should discuss options.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say neutrally, though the reminder of my age—of the biological clock that’s been ticking relentlesslywhile I built my clinic, raised Tristy, endured my divorce—sends an unexpected pang through my chest.
After the examination, after the blood draws and ultrasound, I check my phone in the waiting room. One text from Gabe:
Gabe:
Landing in DC. Meetings start in 2 hours and run through dinner. Will call when I can. Miss you.
I smile at the screen, still adjusting to this new reality where Gabe Vasquez misses me, where the feelings I’ve been suppressing for longer than I care to admit have been acknowledged, embraced, reciprocated.
The timing of his IRS meeting in Washington is frustrating, coming just days after our return from Hawaii, but unavoidable. His clinic’s nonprofit status depends on this final hurdle, and I of all people understand the necessity of prioritizing such matters.
Andrea:
Good luck with the meetings. Call whenever you can, no matter how late. Miss you too.
I hesitate, then add a heart emoji—a small thing, but significant for someone who’s always maintained careful emotional boundaries in text messages. We’re not teenagers, but there’s something undeniably adolescent about the flutter in my chest when I hit send.
Three days, I remind myself as I head to my car. Three days until Gabe returns, until we can properly talk about what happens next, about how we navigate this transition from friendship to... whatever this is becoming. In the meantime, I have a clinic to run, paperwork to complete, and test results to await.
The notification from the patient portal arrives at 11:17 PM, when I’m already in bed with case files spread around me. My phone chimes with that distinctive tone I’ve assigned to work-related communications, instantly commanding my attention.
Presbyterian Healthcare Patient Portal: New Test Results Available
I hesitate, finger hovering over the notification. Part of me—the practical, clinical part—knows it’s better to review medical information in the morning, with fresh eyes and clear mind. But the doctor in me, the one who needs to maintain control by having all available data, overrides that sensible impulse.
The portal loads slowly, each buffering second heightening my anticipation. Finally, my results appear, organized in the familiar clinical format—bloodwork, hormonal panels, preliminary ultrasound findings.
I scan the numbers first, medical training automatically flagging values outside normal ranges. Then the diagnostic notes catch my eye:
“Hormonal panels indicate elevated FSH and decreased estradiol consistent with premature ovarian failure (POF). Ultrasound shows reduced follicular development. Patient presents with symptoms suggesting menopausal transition. Recommend follow-up to discuss diagnosis, hormone replacement options, and fertility preservation considerations if applicable, though likely not viable.”
My breath catches as medical terminology transforms into personal implications. Premature ovarian failure.
Early menopause.
The end of my reproductive years.
The clinical part of my brain understands these are preliminary findings, that further testing is needed, that there are treatment options for symptoms. But the woman in me—the one who’s just begun a relationship with a younger man, who’s suddenly forced to confront her aging body in stark medical terms—feels the ground shifting beneath her.
I read the report again, then a third time, my physician’s knowledge working against me as I compile mental lists of worst-case scenarios, of treatments, of statistics. The words “likely not viable” regarding fertility preservation echo in my mind like a death knell.
Without conscious decision, I find myself reaching for my phone, scrolling to Gabe’s name. It’s late in DC—after 1 AM—but the need to hear his voice, to share this burden suddenly pressing on my chest, overrides consideration of time zones.
The call goes straight to voicemail. “This is Dr. Gabriel Vasquez. I’m unavailable to take your call...”
Of course his phone is off. He has critical meetings tomorrow, needs his rest. Leaving a voicemail about early menopause seems absurdly inappropriate, so I simply say, “It’s me. Call when you can. I need to talk to you about something.”
I hang up, staring at the ceiling as medical terminology circles my thoughts like sharks scenting blood.Premature ovarian failure. Estradiol. FSH. Menopausal transition.
All clinical ways of saying what I already know—that my time for having more children is gone. Something I’ve accepted as an abstract concept but am now forced to confront as medical reality.
