Because I am so savvy and newly budget conscious, I decided that my best and cheapest option for birth control, while I am dealing with paying for only basic insurance, would be to get an IUD inserted while I still have insurance. See, the doctor’s visit would be paid for! I am still getting a paycheck, so I can pay the out-of-pocket fees, which proved to be pretty outrageous! I can get my follow-up visits while I am still covered, and then, I have five years of excellent, don’t-think-about-it, non-hormonal birth control! I am such a genius.
I did all the research and the reading, and I had a checkup with my gynecologist, and I decided that all systems were go, and now was the time. Well, last month was the time. Except that they wanted to insert the sucker while I still had my period, and I couldn’t get an appointment in time, so I had to wait another month for the bleeding to kick in. I’m sorry, I meant “my glorious moon time,” for you squeamish people out there. Luckily, I am regular like the sun going around the earth, and I scheduled a full month ahead! And I had an entire month to worry about it.
All the websites in the world said it mild discomfort was to be expected, and some
cramping, and it’s not a pleasant picnic full of excitement and
sandwiches, but that it wasn’t so bad and you’d be up on your feet and
having worry-free sex in no time! And I was totally down with that,
except that the gynecologist—with the instruments and the poking and
my knees up in the air and my dignity down around my ankles with my
pants—has always been fraught with anxiety and unpleasantness and some
terror; I’ve had bad, bad experiences in the past, and I’ve never quite
managed to get over the accompanying nerves, even for routine exams. So
all this added up to me really, seriously considering taking a Vicodin
before hitting the office this afternoon. I really wish I had taken the Vicodin.
I asked E., on IM, if I was going to die, and he said no. Then I asked
my coworker if I was going to die, before I left, and she said no, too.
And then I asked the receptionist, and she said no, and laughed at me.
I asked the nurse practitioner who escorted me into the examining room
if I was going to die. And then I hung my head out the window and said,
“You there! Boy! What day is it? Am I going to die?” and passerby all
told me I had missed Christmas but no, it wasn’t the IUD that was going
to kill me. The doctor told me the very same thing, and that it would
be some uncomfortableness and cramping, but everything would be okay!
I discarded my pants and my dignity and put my feet up and she measured
my cervix and I gasped. Was she cramming a slide rule into my uterus? A
compass and some string? A team of surveyors? Shh, the doctor said.
It’s not too much longer. She fiddled with some things, and told me she
was going to put her gloves on, and to just hang on, and it was really
uncomfortable, and then suddenly she turned and thrust a red-hot poker
directly into the heart of my vagina (my vagina totally has a heart)
and turned it slowly like she was roasting me into crispy, caramelized
deliciousness but I did not feel delicious at all. I clasped my hands
against my chest and bit my cheek and tried to stop the whimpering. I
was whimpering, and I hated myself for it, a lot. “It’s okay,” the
doctor said. “You’re doing great!” “Oh god,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m
such a baby. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
It went on for endless more years and I tried not to cry and we were
done. “You lie here awhile, okay? And humor me, and let’s get you an
ultrasound, to make sure I placed it correctly. It shouldn’t have hurt
like that.” “Maybe I’m just a wimp,” I said. “You did just fine,” she
said. They brought me a Motrin, and I laid on the table awhile and
wondered if I was going to die, because I am dramatic like whoa. It
still is ouching me, and it is going to be fine, and I am just a wimp,
I know. I am trying to not draw stupid poetic conclusions and far-fetched life lessons. I
want a hug and a stiff drink.