IUD, TMI, LMNOP

On the same kind of line that I told you about getting my lady parts waxed, I figured I would share with you my IUD experience this week (“share,” of course, is code for “I have no filter” so suck it up). Hey, I’m nothing if not a good old-fashioned public service announcement or a suitable substitute in case any of your parents didn’t sign the permission slip for you to learn about sex ed in the 5th grade.

One thing that regular readers know about me is that I’m not a mom. That fact right there is what distinctly separates this blog from the endless sea of mommy blogs and I would like to do my best at keeping any reason for me to start a mommy blog at bay. This means, of course, that I should probably be a little more attentive about active birth control options now that my husband is no longer intimidated at my threats to break out the baseball bat if he’s thinking about trying anything kinky. (This is where I tell you that I went off birth control pills 6 or 7 years ago because my sister’s hair dramatically fell out several months after she was taking them. Yes, that’s right; I have forgone birth control and risked pregnancy for years because I am too attached to my hair. Extreme selfishness and vanity also happen to be high on the list of why I shouldn’t open myself up to an “oops” situation.)

At my last check up, the midwife (nurse? tech? whatever. someone who is not an OBGYN but who has a license that says it’s ok for them to put some of their body parts into my body parts without incurring some sort of legal battle), recommended that I should consider having an IUD/IUC installed (given my disdain for pills, patches, creams or anything else you have to remember to take on a regular basis). It all sounded well and good and we were talking options when she looked at me seriously and said, “Are you monogamous?” Um, yeah. And then she continued to stress that if I am not monogamous this would be a terrible option. “ARE YOU MONOGAMOUS?” Christ, lady, I said yes and if you’re wondering why I’m sounding a little uncomfortable and unsure it might be because you have your hand up inside of me and I’m starting to wonder if perhaps this very gesture is somehow breaking the monogamy rule and you’re trying to catch me lying about it. One thing was for certain, this woman had a gaze so piercing that I felt like I should admit to something. Maybe reveal something scandalous just to get her off my back. But I decided to hold back just in case.

Relatively satisfied by my lack of answer, she moved on with the conversation. This would be a good option for me, but, thing is that I couldn’t get it that day because, well, you have to have your period to put it in and that pretty much ruled out a snap decision to get hooked up.

So I thought about it. And thought about it. And thought about it some more. The more I thought about it the more panicked I became that at any moment I might conceive and MAN would that ever put a kink into our kitchen remodeling plans this year. So, for the sake of good cabinetry, I called them up this past Tuesday to make an appointment for next week. Only my body, who usually cooperates like clockwork, decided to spring a leak a little early so we had the Pharmaceutical company overnight the device and I was ushered in a couple of days later.

Finding a suitable OBGYN is hard, yo. First of all, the ladies are always quadruple booked so to get an appointment at all you have to check the alignment of the stars and send out a little prayer. If you did all of this while standing on your head, all the better. I usually am set up with a female doctor yet somehow after my initial appointment, they’re on maternity leave for the rest of the time I’m with that office. It almost never fails, hence the steely-eyed midwife. As fate would have it, the midwife was out on maternity leave, and low and behold, I was to see my initial doctor who at this point is little more than a stranger to me now. Fine, no big deal. Really, what’s one more cook to stir the pot?

To be at an OBGYN office at all is weird and uncomfortable. First of all, bring an iPod, or War and Peace, or something because it will take an hour for you to be put into a room. It’s just part of the natural order of medical offices so be prepared. Lucky for me, my iPhone is stocked with movies (Quick everyone run out and rent The Amateurs! Also, The Amateurs is mildly inappropriate to watch that at the OBGYN, but I recommend trying it especially if you’re a little warped.) Once you’re in the room on the table with the stirrups, you know you’re going to be pantless and prodded soon and if you’re like me you start to feel a little queasy and sweaty and you start telling the technicians really bad jokes and never stop talking ever because being pantless and silent is just awkward. Only this time you’re sitting there pantless and practically hemorrhaging on something that looks like a doggie pee pad and there is absolutely no amount of chitchat that can impart an air of levity to that situation.

The tech leaves, so start watching that movie again because it’ll take another 45 minutes for anyone to come back. So now, you’re pantless, wearing a sheet, hemorrhaging on a giant gauze pad, and laughing your ass off at a movie when you realize that the tech left the door to your room open. Hmm… that is a dilly of a pickle, but you can’t get up to shut it because we have already determined that at this point you are pantless and hemorrhaging and sheet or no sheet, I you’re not about to get up to do anything about it. If anyone walked by, just say something witty like “Oh hai! Got pants?”

Finally, the doctor comes in. “Oh hai.” More chitchat. Then she says something like, “Did the midwife tell you that we have to measure your uterus and if you’re not the right size then we can’t put this in?” Uh, no. “Oh, ok. That just means we have to measure your uterus.” And then she’ll go back to reading something that looks suspiciously like a manual. Now I’m sure you’re all well aware of how disconcerting it is to watch a professional read a manual before your scheduled appointment. Now, close your eyes and imagine that same feeling only your half naked and this professional will be messing around with, um, your interior. Yeah, it rather increases the whole queasy/sweaty factor. Just as you start to look for the wee tape measure that will determine whether or not you can have this procedure at all, you’ll ask your doctor how exactly one measures one’s uterus, it being way up inside and all. “We measure it with sound.”

As it turns out, using “sound” feels an awful lot like poking and poking then makes for an awful lot of cramping. “HEY! You’re the perfect uterus size.” Hear that internet? My uterus kicks as with its perfection. The glory is short lived though because at this point there’s something that goes on that sounds a lot like someone is using a ratchet on you and then, of course, more poking. If you’re like me, you’ll be sucking in a lot of air because at this point we have determined that all this poking kind of sucks. Seconds later the gloves come off and your doctor is announcing it’s all over and, oh, there’ll be some extra heavy bleeding for a while but that’s normal. Even before you have a chance to register that whole airy comment about extra bleeding, she and the technician have departed leaving the door open, again. And there you sit in front of an open door, 5 feet from your pants considering what kind of acrobatic strategy you’re going to have to pull off to get clothed when you suddenly recognize that new sensation you’re feeling must be that extra bleeding she was talking about. It’s either that or you can now add incontinence to your current woes.

Hey! There’s one of those swooshy hospital curtains in the room so that solves the open door problem, but wasn’t there a maxi pad around here somewhere? Oh, they put it on my pants that are still 5 feet away from me. Now, there’s some maneuvering one has to do in this situation that even I know warrants a tiny bit of discretion. Let’s just say, I managed to get my pants on after some quick contemplation.

Really, the whole procedure took less than 5 minutes and although I’m experiencing residual uterine cramps today and despite the obvious door malfunction, I am glad to have had it done. And for the next five years, I can be worry free and concentrate on my beautiful kitchen cabinets during sex instead of the fear of making a mini me.

If I had to recommend one thing to anyone considering this method, it would be this: keep your pants close by. Seriously.