IUD and Me
IUD and Me
Written by Lucy Latorre
Art by Liberty Ice
TW: BRIEF mention of body issues
“IUD SIS. Stay in school, ’cause it’s the best.” — Peaches
It started with a bra. A big, huge bra. I’m the prime candidate for breast reduction surgery: back issues, self-diagnosed body dysmorphia, and a pair of tits that bust out of every age-appropriate top. From the day they started growing I planned to get them cut off, but I knew it had to be after I started birth control, just in case the hormones took my Gs to Es. I didn’t want just any birth control, I wanted the PERFECT birth control. At first I considered pills, but they would speed up my metabolism too much for my anti-anxiety medication to be fully effective. The implant made me want to flay myself, and I wasn’t close enough to my doctor for the shots. Enter the wonderful T of trimester-preventing, the epic cross of contraception, the thing with the string when your ovaries ring: the IUD. It was perfect, like a beacon of light, a holy cross to rival the crucifix.
On May 19, 2023, I took 1.00 mg of Xanax, the strongest Tylenol I could find, and as much confidence as I could muster, and walked into the gynecologist's office. Was I absolutely terrified? Yes. Was it going to hurt? Most definitely. But the pain and the fear represented my old life. My fertile 19-year-old self needed a uterus jab, and she was going to get it if it was the last thing she did. So, pantsless, my feet in the air, free bleeding on the paper-lined chair, I took a breath and settled in.
I spent the night before watching videos of EXACTLY what would happen: the speculum, the cervical numbing shot, the uterus measurement, and finally the pinch of the IUD settling into its new home. I took it all in strides, barely even squeezing the nurse’s hand. My ego higher than ever, I journeyed home, crawled in bed, put on Shark Tale, and took an epic Xanax nap. All was well.
For the next three weeks, I was unstoppable. Despite dull cramps and occasional bleeding, I couldn’t even look at a baby without reminding it I had its Kryptonite wedged inside of me. Then, I got my first IUD period. Mid-afternoon on June 14, debilitating cramps overtook my lower half. I was doubling over in pain from what felt like waves of fire, like my stomach had a mind of its own. After hobbling to the bathroom, I did the doctor-prescribed IUD check, sticking my finger as far up I could and feeling for the strings. And I felt strings, all right, only this time they were lower than they were before.
After my initial insertion, I had a pre-scheduled follow up meeting about three weeks later. This was supposed to be my moment to prove that my IUD and I were the absolute best of friends. Instead, I recounted my cramps to the doctor. She dove in to feel the strings for herself and revealed my IUD had “dislodged” and moved lower than it should be. We set up an ultrasound appointment to double check, and, a bit too casually, called it a day. The next week, I journey three towns away for my ultrasound. Filled with water, I was prepared for an abdominal ultrasound, only to be welcomed into a vaginal one. I tried my hardest not to wince as the doctor stuck me with what was basically a medical dildo. Squinting, I tried to read the ultrasound, praying that I would end up with a different interpretation, but there was no way to spin it: my IUD was falling out.
I called my therapist in tears. Why me? I’d made the courageous decision to get an IUD, then the IUD made the courageous decision to dislodge and force its way out of me. I was promised 3+ years of pregnancy prevention, but the only thing my IUD prevented was any sense of vaginal privacy. It was supposed to be the perfect solution setting me on a path to breast reduction! Still, I couldn’t leave it inside of me, so I took my pills and journeyed one final time to the gynecologist, bracing myself for what supposedly hurt more than insertion: removal. Biting my lip, I took deep breaths as the doctor went in, shutting my eyes so hard that I barely noticed when she popped back up seconds later with a loose, goopy IUD in her hand. Around 9:30 a.m. on June 23, I welcomed my IUD back into the world. It was sitting in my vaginal canal, she explained, and if I left it for another day or two, it probably would’ve fallen right out of me.
Knowing there was nothing I could do, I spent the next year completely IUD free, willing to play with fire rather than possibly experience contractions again. Then election season rolled around. A few weeks ago, over a year after my horrific journey, I called my mom with a crazy idea: an IUD do-over. I always figured that, on the off chance I miscalculated my cycle and got pregnant, I would be able to get an abortion. That’s becoming less and less of a possibility now as access to abortion and birth control is at risk. So I must make my choice: Get another IUD and risk it falling out again, or possibly prepare for parenthood. Frankly, I’d rather take the pain while I still have the right to do so. What hurt most about my IUD wasn’t the brutal contractions or the sheer betrayal, it was that my lofty idea of what birth control should be was shattered. Birth control isn’t easy. It can be inconvenient and ineffective. But it’s what we got, so I’ve shaken its hand and welcomed it back into my circle while I still can. If the government wants my IUD, they can come and rip it out of me. It wouldn’t be the first time.