She hunched over the grey metal ashtray outside the gas station, sifting through the discarded ash like panning for gold. Searching. Searching. Her head tilted, her eyelids heavy, as though weighed down by invisible chains. I had seen eyes like those before, droopy eyes with lids that fell over them no matter how hard they battled to rise—eyes sunken into the skull—deep blue, lonely mountain lakes, dense with fog. 

Susan’s droopy eyes weren’t blue like the girl’s. Her eyes were green, so green you could smell fresh-cut summer grass. This wasn’t Susan’s face, but I saw the echoes of my best friend, the heroin addict. I remember the first time I said, “My best friend is a heroin addict.” My heart lodged in my throat, choking off my air. My eyes watered, my nose twitched, my soul died. 

The wind at the gas pump carried a faint metallic chill, biting my cheeks as I continued watching the girl while I pumped. Her tiny hands rummaged through the ashes, finding just the right butts, laying them aside, teetering on the edge. This wasn’t the first time she had done this, and it wouldn’t be the last. She wasn’t just searching for used cigarette butts; she was searching for something to hold on to, just like Susan always had.

The girl wore a red and black plaid button-down flannel shirt over a tube top, once white but now dull gray. Her small frame was swallowed into someone else’s jeans, tied with a rope or some sort of string. I stared at the girl, willing her to be Susan, not the addict Susan, but my best friend Susan. Ashamed to stare, I turned away and then looked back again, drawn to her like a needle to a wanton vein. She swiped her matted blonde hair from her eyes and glanced my way, not at me, but through me, as if seeking someone, something, somewhere.

I finished pumping gas and sat in the car, watching. Her feet hopscotched on the sidewalk across from me, bare and black like the asphalt parking lot. I imagined how cold her feet must be. We’d just had snow and ice. The ground would still be frozen beneath her soles. “Soles,” I said aloud to no one. More like a lost soul.

The girl took a small brown paper bag from her jeans pocket and dropped in the butts—her treasures for the day. She gently folded the bag closed, placed it back in her pocket, and walked towards my car. 

Impulsively, without thought, I rolled down my window and called to her. She looked cautiously at me, stood a few feet away, and listened. “Do you want some shoes?” I asked before realizing I was wearing brand new UGGs—shoes I had just gotten in the mail that very day, shoes I had watched for weeks, hoping and waiting for them to go on sale, shoes I’d never buy if they weren’t on sale, shoes I was excited to wear. They were mine. I’d waited for them. I wanted to keep them. And still…I offered them anyway.

She nodded. She wanted my UGGs. I wiggled my bare toes against the soft fur, stalling, the warmth sinking into me like a promise I wasn’t ready to break. I looked up and met her eyes—soft, blue, hopeful. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

Susan wouldn’t have accepted the shoes. She was too proud to admit she needed anything—food, clothes, blankets, rehab. I’m fine, she’d say as her friends and family watched her wither away each day. I’m fine, she’d say as she floated through life like a dandelion seed in the wind. 

I slowly peeled off the new shoes, almost sorry I had offered, and tossed them to the girl, not knowing her size, not knowing if they’d fit or if she’d care. I waited to see if she’d smile or say something, but she didn’t. 

Susan didn’t say anything when she left. She just walked away. 

And now, I watched as the blue-eyed girl stomped into the snow-covered bank, her feet covered, but her path still uncertain. It felt like watching Susan leave all over again, her back to me, her steps leading somewhere I couldn’t follow.

In my family, we don’t call 9-1-1.

It’s not a saying. It’s a rule. A bone-deep, blood-soaked mantra passed down like a casserole dish or Irish guilt. No ambulances, no cops, no outsiders. Just grit your teeth, walk it off, or, in one case, shove your nearly severed finger in a dish towel and drive yourself to the ER.

So when I walked into the kitchen that spring evening and saw my mother sprawled in a pool of blood, skull cracked open on the radiator she’d climbed while cleaning windows in her stockings, I knew exactly what I was supposed to do.

And I also knew I wasn’t going to do it.

A few minutes earlier, it had been a normal night. My mom was drinking, as usual. Her boyfriend was MIA (also usual). I stepped into the bathroom for thirty seconds and caught a flash of movement out the window.

I thought she was joking. Maybe she’d developed a sense of humor at 50. But when I ran around to the other side of the kitchen, she was collapsed, silent, bleeding from the back of her head.

“Call 9-1-1,” I said, without thinking.

“Erin Marie Daly, do not call 9-1-1!” she barked, somehow coherent enough to weaponize my full name.

At least she was conscious.

But I froze. Because this wasn’t just her rule—it was a family creed. Gerritys don’t call for help. Not for concussions. Not for car accidents. Not even for a woman bleeding on the linoleum.

And I couldn’t drive. I didn’t even have a learner’s permit. She couldn’t sit up. I weighed 80 pounds. She was easily 200. Even if I could lift her, we had no plan beyond “get to the car.”

So I picked up the phone.

First, my uncle—the EMT. Surely he’d break code.

“Call 9-1-1,” he said.

Okay. One for logic.

Then I called my aunt—the nurse. She was at work. Strike two.

I turned back to my mom. “We need to call.”

“No.”

I called my best friend. Then asked for her dad. I never talked to my friends’ dads—they were mythical creatures who fixed toilets and paid taxes. But I was desperate.

“Call 9-1-1,” he said.

Dan? Not home. Probably at a bar. Or with someone else.

I called my grandparents. Their advice? “See if it gets better.”

“She’s bleeding. From her head.”

Still no.

Twenty minutes passed like a slow-moving car crash. My mother started to fade. Her eyes fluttered. She mumbled something I couldn’t make out. Then she went quiet.

I called.

The paramedics arrived, followed by half the people I’d already called. As they lifted her onto the stretcher, she snapped awake—angry, defensive, full of fire.

“Where are you taking me? I’m fine!”

They asked questions. She refused to answer. She was too injured, she claimed—except not too injured to bark insults at anyone who looked her in the eye. Especially me.

I was the only one who offered to ride with her to the hospital. And she looked at me like I’d betrayed her.

The paramedics found a cluster of prescription bottles in her purse. I didn’t know what they were for, and she wasn’t about to explain. They wanted to keep her overnight. She refused and left after a resident stitched up her skull.

Dan finally showed up at the hospital hours late, looking like a man who’d been asked to solve a calculus problem with a crayon. My aunt drove me home in silence. No one asked if I was okay.

No one ever did.

But something shifted in me that night.

I had broken the rule. I called for help. And maybe, just maybe, it saved her life.

And yet, there was no relief. No thanks. Just the cold, hard clarity that this was my life now: the girl who dialed the ambulance when her mother cracked her skull open on a radiator. The girl who held the bleeding together while the adults fell apart.

That night, I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t do anything dramatic. I climbed into bed, stared at the ceiling, and thought: If this was a coming-of-age moment, I’d like a refund.

Because growing up in my house didn’t come with a party or a cake. It came with blood on the floor, a head injury, and the realization that no one was coming—not unless you dialed the damn number yourself.

And even then, you’d probably get yelled at for it.

From the desk of
Kelsey Aldinger

March 14, 2024 

Dear Staff Members of Prelude Fertility, 

I am writing to inform you of my resignation from my role as LONG-TERM IVF PATIENT, effective immediately. As I am likely your longest tenured position holder, I’m sure this news will come as a surprise to you all. 

Since becoming a patient at your clinic in 2019, my stamina for navigating the obstacles standing between myself and bearing a child has decreased significantly. While I was initially willing and able to fulfill the grueling mandates of this role, my mind and body are unable to further withstand these requirements. 

I no longer wish to subject myself to hormone-altering medications, daily shots which leave welts and bruises on my stomach and glutes, fruitless conversations with your financial counselors and my insurance company, and the emotional toll of multiple failed embryo transfers. 

My desire for another child remains; however, my role as LONG-TERM IVF PATIENT is no longer congruent with my lifestyle. This role offers no work–life balance, as evidenced by the meticulously timed medication schedule, frequent blood draw appointments, 267 miles of travel to and from your facility, and as previously stated—the endless hours spent on the phone. As a wife, mother to a two-year-old, daughter, friend, and community member, I do not have the capacity to accept the responsibilities this position demands. 

While I do appreciate the opportunities afforded to me here over the past five years—you did assist in the achievement of my motherhood ambitions with the successful conception of my daughter, after all—I will be seeking new alternatives that are more aligned with my current needs. These opportunities include, but are not limited to: starting therapy, increasing my anxiety medication, having difficult but necessary conversations with my husband regarding the future of our family, savoring moments with my daughter, and exploring who I am outside of my position as LONG-TERM IVF PATIENT. I hope these prospects will allow me to discover my sense of self once again and make space for new roles in the future. 

I have no desire to stay in touch with your clinic moving forward but you may put me in contact with current or future patients seeking guidance and support on their journey. 

Respectfully, 

Kelsey Aldinger