13. Elena #2
I would like to extend to you an invitation to consider transferring your care to my clinic, should you wish to explore a more collaborative approach.
Our program is designed to give participants greater autonomy in day-to-day decisions while maintaining the highest standards of medical care.
The structure is less rigid, and your input would be valued at every stage of your pregnancy.
If this is something you would like to discuss, I encourage you to contact my office at your convenience. While transfers require coordination, we have successfully facilitated them for others, and I believe my clinic could offer you a meaningful alternative.
Sincerely,
Dr. Marcus Hennessy
Hennessy Fertility Institute
I read it once. Twice. My stomach twists and untwists, as though I’m both rising and falling at the same time.
More collaborative. Less restrictive. Greater autonomy.
Meaningful alternative. Words that promise space, choice, freedom—the things I have been aching for without realizing I even could.
I grip the edges of the paper, almost afraid to let go.
Like if I do, the words will vanish, and with them the tiny spark of something I haven’t felt in weeks: hope.
My eyes flick to the window. The apartment is quiet.
The usual rhythm continues outside my control, but inside, everything has changed in an instant.
The letter offers something my current life hasn’t: a chance to step beyond the carefully monitored, endlessly controlled routines, a chance to reclaim even a fraction of myself.
And yet, fear follows almost immediately. What would leaving mean? What if it isn’t better? What if I’m not ready? But the thought that haunts me even as it terrifies me is simple: staying feels like surrender. This letter offers a doorway. And I want to see what’s on the other side.
I fold the letter gently, smoothing the crease as if I could memorize every word through touch alone. For the first time in weeks, my heart isn’t only heavy with routine and isolation. Now it’s tinged with possibility, with something that feels dangerously like freedom.
And I realize, almost with a shock, that I’m considering the offer. I’m seriously considering stepping outside the cage Cormac built, just to see if I can breathe somewhere else.
But right now, I can’t think about breathing. I have to think about being on time for my next appointment, and I’m not even dressed yet!
I pull on clothes with more speed than care, tugging my hair into a rough bun, shoving my feet into shoes, my hands trembling slightly as I slip the letter into the back pocket of my bag. I can’t risk dropping it, can’t risk letting anyone see it. Not yet. Not until I’ve decided what to do.
The clinic is only a few blocks away, but I still leave early, moving quickly through the streets, counting every step in the back of my mind, trying to tame the fluttering mix of excitement and fear pulsing through me.
My body feels different as I walk; the bump sways slightly, a steady weight reminding me of the life I carry and the choices I now imagine unfolding before me.
Dr. Walsh’s office smells the same as always: antiseptic, faint lavender from the diffuser, the quiet hum of a controlled, efficient world.
My heart slows slightly as I sit, but not completely.
My hands find each other in my lap, resting just above the swell of my stomach, as if I need to physically ground myself before asking the question I’ve been rehearsing.
When she enters, clipboard in hand, the familiar routine begins: weight, vitals, the brief flurry of questions about how I’ve been feeling. I answer automatically, words spilling out without thinking. I’m used to this. I can do this.
But my hands won’t stay still. They twist in my lap, fingers lacing and unlacing, tapping lightly against the chair’s edge.
My pulse has taken on a new rhythm, fast and uneven, a quiet drum under my ribs.
The letter is still in my bag, its folded shape pressing against my thigh like it’s alive, urging me to act.
Dr. Walsh flips through my chart, eyes scanning numbers, notes, dates. She doesn’t notice the way I’m holding my breath for no reason at all. My stomach knots into a ball, as if it knows what my mind is circling around but doesn’t dare say.
I shift in the chair, glancing at the clipboard in her hands like it’s a talisman that will either protect me or expose me. I want to ask—I need to ask. But the words are trapped behind the unchanging routine, behind all the calculated steps of appointments, behind the sterile hum of the clinic.
My tongue presses against the roof of my mouth, and I swallow, the sound loud in my ears. My fingers dig slightly into my thighs, tracing the seams of my jeans, tracing something solid in a world that has felt increasingly fluid.
And then, without planning it, without any time for hesitation, the question bursts out of me like a gasp.
“Can participants transfer to other providers?”
The words hang there, even heavier than I expected. My chest lifts and falls too quickly, and I feel my palms go clammy against my legs. My heartbeat thuds in my ears, a loud, unignorable signal of the risk I’ve just taken.
Dr. Walsh pauses, pen suspended over the clipboard, eyes narrowing with careful calculation. She leans back slightly, letting the moment stretch. The space between us is suddenly charged, and I can feel the tremor in my hands, in the small shift of my weight against the chair.
“Well…” Her voice is cautious, careful, deliberate. “Theoretically, it’s possible. But it’s not something taken lightly.”
“I see.”
I don’t really see, so I’m glad when she continues.
“You would need to get approval for any medical transfer. There are continuity clauses in the contract. Legal obligations, medical oversight. Again, it’s not something we handle lightly. It’s possible, but it requires coordination. Safeguards are in place to ensure the pregnancy isn’t compromised.”
I swallow. The words feel both huge and impossibly small. Possible. Clauses. Coordination. As ever, everything is wrapped in rules, in process, in control, but underneath it all is a tiny doorway.
I nod again, lips pressed together. I file the knowledge away like a fragile object, careful not to let it slip. I don’t speak of the letter.
When Dr. Walsh gives a small nod and moves to the next step of the appointment, I let my hands rest on my bump, steadying myself against the swell of possibility that has begun to roll quietly, insistently, through my chest.
Maybe I can find a way out of this. Maybe I will be okay after all.