Last week, I finally bought the pineapple socks. Two days later, I found a four-leaf clover and placed it inside my calendar, over the square marking May 28th. That day, my husband and I would split fries, because someone on the internet decided that fries and pineapples are good luck.
Writing this post as I turn the corner on my third infertility treatment and approach the anniversary of two years in trying, I find that this is the first time I have welcomed omens. In the past, I perceived treatments scientifically, grounding myself in objectivity and a mantra I explored in my piece, “Soon, It Will be Over” (Poetry, Intima, Spring/Summer 2025). But the longer I wait, the more I find that unrealized hope yields to desperation just as easily as desperation makes way for unfounded hope. The harsh reality of infertility is that it is marked by the absence of control. It is a sort of desperation that welcomes any small victory that communicates a suggestion of the outcome. There simply comes a point when omens are a rare comfort and partaking is the only way to extinguish the thought that every avenue was exhausted. So, this time, I asked my friends to eat fries, and when one had two orders thrown into their bag instead of one, I took that good luck charm and ran.
When I reflect on Ryan Boyland’s poem “Omens” (Intima, Fall 2024), I confront the moment I first entertained them. For him, it was the loss of a patient no one expected to lose, and a nurse who felt it coming anyway because of an uncanny moth. This is a lesson we were briefed on similarly. There are many things physicians all inevitably learn from nurses. One is a reverence for their gut feelings. The second is the ban on the word “quiet.” For me, the third was the importance of the right socks for an intrauterine insemination. While the mismatched pair I wore to my first rodeo raised eyebrows and forebode failure, the compliment to my pineapples was a silent nod—and I’ll take any good omen I can find.
In all instances, there are two words that encapsulate what good and bad omens share: Why not? Why not be cautious when my gut makes my hair stand at attention, and why not hope when there is nothing but hoping to do?
Let intuition be a tool and hope a gift – and eat some fries for me.
Melissa Cummins
Melissa Cummins is a fourth-year medical student at the West Virginia School of Osteopathic Medicine. Her work reflects upon the values of clinicians, defining moments in patient care and her career, and her personal experiences with infertility and loss. Cummins seeks to bridge the gap between patients and providers, and to use the written word as a means of integrating the beauties of science and art. In so doing, she hopes to use the power of narrative medicine to present a raw, unfiltered reflection on the highs and lows of the practice of medicine as well as the pursuit of wellness.