8. TRUTH
TRUTH
Subject: Medical Appointment Scheduled - New Beginnings Fertility Center
I stared at my phone screen, still half-asleep, the words blurring until I blinked hard enough to focus.
Provider: Dr. Simone Beaumont, MD
Please arrive 15 minutes early to complete intake paperwork. Bring a valid ID and insurance card (if applicable). Fasting is not required.
My stomach twisted.
This was real.
This was happening.
I sat up in bed, the springs creaking beneath me, and read the email three more times like the words might change if I looked long enough. I’d put a star by it so I could find it quicker. Today was the day.
Mama was already awake—I could hear her moving around in the kitchen, the coffee pot gurgling, the radio playing low. She didn’t knock. Just called through the door.
“You up?”
“Yeah.”
“You got that appointment you told me about earlier this week today?”
I didn’t answer right away.
“Truth?”
“Yeah, Mama.”
Silence.
Then, “You need me to come with you?”
My throat tightened.
“No. I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
“Alright then. There’s coffee if you want it.”
Her footsteps faded down the hallway.
I sat in the dim light of my childhood bedroom, surrounded by posters I’d never taken down and a dresser that didn’t close all the way, and tried to breathe through the panic rising in my chest.
I could do this.
I had to do this.
The $50,000 was already in my account. I’d checked it seventeen times since I deposited the money. Fifty thousand dollars that I didn’t have to split with Phillip, didn’t have to explain to bill collectors, didn’t have to apologize for.
It was mine.
And all I had to do was let them turn my body into a science project for nine months.
I got dressed slowly—jeans, a T-shirt, sneakers. Nothing fancy. Nothing that said I’m about to let a doctor I’ve never met stick needles in me so a man I barely know can have a baby.
Mama was sitting at the kitchen table when I came out, her coffee mug cradled in both hands.
She looked up.
“You eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You should eat.”
“Mama.”
“I’m just saying.” She took a sip of her coffee. “You look nervous.”
“I’m fine.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I grabbed my purse from the counter and checked for my ID, my phone, and the insurance card I only had a few weeks of eligibility left on.
“Truth.”
I stopped.
Turned around.
Mama was watching me with that look—the one that said she knew more than I was telling her and was deciding whether or not to push.
“You sure about this?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah.”
“Because once you start?—”
“I know, Mama.”
She nodded slowly.
“Alright then.”
I walked out before she could say anything else. I didn’t give her all the details yet, just enough.
New Beginnings Fertility Center sat on a tree-lined street in the Garden District, tucked between a law office and a boutique that sold overpriced candles. The building was old—historic, probably—with tall windows and wrought-iron balconies that looked like they belonged in a postcard.
I stood on the sidewalk for a full minute, staring at the brass plaque beside the door.
New Beginnings Fertility Center
Reproductive Endocrinology & IVF Services
My hands were sweating.
I wiped them on my jeans and walked inside.
The lobby was nothing like I expected.
It was nice.
Soft lighting. Pale gray walls. A lavender diffuser on the reception desk that made the whole room smell like a spa. Classical music played quietly from hidden speakers.
It felt expensive.
It felt like a place where people with money came to fix problems that people like me just lived with.
The receptionist looked up and smiled.
“Good morning. Do you have an appointment?”
“Yeah. Truth Renois. Nine o’clock.”
She typed something into her computer, then handed me a clipboard.
“Perfect. Just fill out these forms and bring them back when you’re done. Dr. Beaumont will be with you shortly.”
I took the clipboard and sat in one of the plush chairs by the window.
The forms were long.
Medical history. Family history. Medications. Allergies. Have you ever been pregnant before? Have you ever had a miscarriage? Do you smoke? Do you drink?
I answered every question honestly, my handwriting getting messier as I went.
When I finished, I brought the clipboard back to the desk.
The receptionist smiled again. “Thank you. Someone will call you back in just a moment.”
I sat back down.
Waited.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Amai.
Good luck today.
I stared at the message.
He remembered.
Of course he remembered.
I typed back: Thanks.
Then deleted it.
Typed: I’m nervous.
Deleted that too.
Finally settled on: I’m here.
Three dots appeared immediately.
You’ll be fine. Call me if you need anything.
I didn’t respond.
Just locked my phone and shoved it back in my purse.
“Truth Renois?”
I looked up.
A nurse stood in the doorway, holding a tablet.
“That’s me.”
“Come on back.”
The exam room was small and sterile—white walls, a paper-covered table, a rolling stool, a counter lined with medical supplies I didn’t want to look at too closely.
The nurse took my vitals—blood pressure, pulse, weight.
“Dr. Beaumont will be in shortly,” she said, then left.
I sat on the table, the paper crinkling beneath me, and tried not to think about what was coming next.
The door opened.
Dr. Simone Beaumont walked in—late forties, dark skin, natural hair pulled back in a low bun, wearing scrubs and a white coat. She had kind eyes. The kind that made you want to trust her even when you didn’t trust anyone.
“Truth,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Dr. Beaumont. It’s nice to meet you.”
I shook her hand.
“Nice to meet you too.”
She sat on the stool and pulled up my chart on her tablet.
“So,” she said, scrolling through. “You’re here for gestational surrogacy. Is that correct?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’ve already signed the contract with the intended parent?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded, still reading.
She knew damn well I signed that contract with Amai because he was footing the bill for all this. I appreciated her being professional, though.
“Good. Today, we’re going to do some baseline testing—bloodwork, ultrasound, make sure everything looks healthy before we start the hormone protocol. Does that sound okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Great.” She looked up at me. “How are you feeling? Nervous?”
I hesitated.
“A little.”
“That’s completely normal.” Her voice was calm. Reassuring. “This process can feel overwhelming, especially at the beginning. But I’m going to walk you through every step, okay? If you have questions, ask. If something doesn’t feel right, tell me. This is your body. You’re in control.”
I nodded.
But I didn’t feel in control.
I felt like I was signing my body over to science and hoping it didn’t break me.
The bloodwork came first.
The nurse came back in with a tray of vials and a tourniquet.
“Just a few tubes,” she said cheerfully, wrapping the band around my arm. “You’ll feel a pinch.”
The needle slid in.
I looked away.
Watched the vials fill one by one—dark red blood disappearing into plastic tubes labeled with my name and a barcode.
“All done,” the nurse said, pressing a cotton ball to the puncture site. “Hold that for a minute.”
I held it.
She labeled the vials, packed them into a bag, and left.
Dr. Beaumont came back in.
“Alright,” she said. “Now we’re going to do a transvaginal ultrasound. It’s going to feel a little uncomfortable, but it shouldn’t hurt. I just need to check your ovaries and uterine lining to make sure everything’s ready.”
I nodded.
She handed me a paper. “You can undress from the waist down and cover yourself with this. I’ll be back in a minute.”
The door closed.
I stared at the sheet.
Then I undressed.
Folded my jeans.
Set them on the chair.
Climbed back onto the table and covered myself with the paper sheet that felt too thin to cover anything.
Dr. Beaumont knocked, then came back in with the ultrasound machine.
“Okay,” she said, pulling on gloves. “Feet in the stirrups. Try to relax.”
I put my feet in the stirrups.
Tried to relax.
Failed.
The gel was cold.
The probe was worse—intrusive, clinical, a reminder that my body wasn’t mine anymore.
Dr. Beaumont moved the probe slowly, her eyes on the screen.
“Everything looks good,” she said. “Your ovaries are healthy. Uterine lining is nice and thick. You’re a perfect candidate.”
I didn’t feel perfect.
I felt exposed.
She finished, pulled the probe out, and handed me a towel.
“You can get dressed.”
I got dressed as fast as I could.
Dr. Beaumont sat back on the stool and pulled up a diagram on her tablet.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s talk about the protocol.”
She walked me through it—fourteen days of hormone injections to stimulate my ovaries, daily monitoring with bloodwork and ultrasounds, then egg retrieval under sedation.
“The injections are subcutaneous,” she said. “You’ll do them yourself at home. I’ll show you how before you leave today.”
“Myself?”
“Yes. It’s easier than it sounds, I promise.”
She scrolled to another screen.
“Side effects can include mood swings, headaches, bloating, breast tenderness, fatigue. Some women feel fine. Some women feel like they’ve been hit by a truck. Everyone’s different.”
“Great.”
She smiled. “I know it sounds intimidating, but you’re going to do great.”
I didn’t believe her.
But I nodded anyway.
She handed me a prescription.
“Fill this today. Start injections tomorrow night. I’ll see you back here in three days for monitoring.”
I took the prescription.
Stared at it.
“Truth.”
I looked up.
Dr. Beaumont’s expression had softened.
“This is going to be hard on your body,” she said quietly. “Make sure you have support. Someone you can call if you need help. Someone who can be there for you.”
I opened my mouth.
“I do,” I lied.
She studied me for a moment.
Then nodded.
“Good.”
I filled the prescription at the pharmacy on Magazine Street.
The pharmacist handed me a white paper bag and a pamphlet on how to self-inject.