I shake my head weakly, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Well, PCOS can make ovulation less predictable, which sometimes makes conception more challenging.”
“Challenging?” I echo.
“Sometimes,” he adds quickly, studying the range of emotions that must be showing on my face, “people withPCOS conceive naturally without any issues at all. Others need support. There’s a wide range of outcomes.”
I nod, but I feel hollow inside.
I do not want to be having this conversation right now.
“So…” My voice comes out quiet. “What does this mean for me exactly?”
He meets my eyes. “It means we continue to monitor your cycles and we’ll begin to manage your symptoms as they come. And if you decide you want children one day, there are options, Zalea. Medical support has come a long way.”
I nod again, even though my hands have started shaking. “Okay,” I say, because it feels like the only word I’m capable of forming right now.
I want to thank him as I climb off the table and grab my belongings. Butinstead, I take the information pamphlet that he offers me and nod when he tells me the front desk will call me to schedule my follow-up. I walk out of his office as if I haven’t just been handed a diagnosis that rearranged my future.
Stepping outside, the hot Hawaiian sun beams down on me as I rush into my car. Out of instinct, I pull up the directions to the beach I’m supposed to be training at in forty minutes. I need every last bit of practice that I can get.
However, before I’m even halfway out of the parking lot, I turn the wheel in the direction that leads me home. There’s no way I can practice today, not with how out of it I feel. I smack the power button on my radio, choosing the silence, but the doctor’s voice replays in my head as I drive.
I feel bile crawling up my throat, but I make it to my home without spilling out the contents of my stomach. Pulling into the driveway and straight into my garage, I shut off the car while the garage doors slide closed behind me with a hollow thud, and a scream tears out of my chest before I can stop it.
It’s a loud, raw, and ugly sound that bounces off the concrete walls and makes my throat burn while tears streak down my cheeks, but I don’t care. I scream again, hands gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to Earth, because right now I’m not thinking about the cysts, or the ultrasounds, or the vagueness of my future options.
I’m thinking about the first time.
Years ago, when I held a stick with two lines, and my hands shook so badly I had to sit down on the dirty bathroom floor of the only convenience store in Saltwater Springs. About Gabriel’s panic and worry, and the way neither of us knew how to be careful with anything back then.
About a future that had appeared without permission and disappeared just as fast.
What if that was it?
What if that was my only chance?
The thought makes my chest ache because I’ve spent my entire life assuming motherhood was something I could choose later. After another surf season, or after my big win, or after I figured everything else out.
Now, later feels like a question mark.
Amaybe.
And what’s worse…I’m not even sure what I want the answer to be.
Do I want to be a mom?
The question sits there, unanswered.
Do I want this life? The endless travel, the pressure, the way my body is always something to be pushed, optimized, broken down and rebuilt?
That question scares me more.
Surfing has always been my constant. The one thing I never questioned. It’s made every sacrifice feel worth it. So if I let thatgo—if I even think about letting it go—what does that leave me with?
A girl from Saltwater Springs, with no hobbies or interests outside of work, who runs from everything that feels too real.
Wow.
