Note: The author recognizes that there are many women who do not have vaginas or uteruses. This is a personal exploration of a transformation into adulthood, and the author wants to express her love for women of all shapes, sizes, races, gender expressions, and sexual identities as they battle what can be a very scary world.
My mom dropped me off outside of the office and wished me luck. I did not respond. The doctor had reassured me that it was a simple procedure with no need to fear, but I still remember every second of getting my first intrauterine device (IUD) inserted as a terrifying marker of my personal transition into womanhood.
I was 16 years old when I sat alone in my OB-GYN’s office after popping a muscle relaxant earlier that morning. A nurse came in to take some basic medical histories before instructing me to remove all of my clothing from the waist down and wait for the doctor to arrive. It was very cold—that is mostly what I recall about those seemingly endless moments in the room alone. My butt was bare against the table, and I was uncomfortable being so exposed underneath the paper sheet they gave me to cover myself. When the doctor entered, she was very kind and said a quick hello before instructing me to place my feet in the stirrups and scoot myself to the edge.
Nothing truly prepares you for the feeling of having someone inside of you in a non-sexual way, and as a young teenager relatively new to any form of sexual touch, the experience was bizarre. First in the steps of getting an IUD is the manual exam; the gynecologist inserts two fingers into the vagina, before following with a freezing, might I add, metal speculum to open your vagina and expose the cervix. Having never seen that part of my own body, it was absurd to feel air touch it, and somewhat disturbing to have my interiors visible to the outside world. Next, the doctor administers a shot of a local anesthetic into the cervix which would hopefully lessen the pain of stretching it.
Sometimes I contemplate how a foreign object has penetrated my body’s natural seal. One of the functions of the cervix is to ensure nothing enters the uterus, so thinking about its biological role helped me conceptualize the pain I felt during my IUD procedure. The shot was a shock; I was ignorant of how unwelcome the sharp pinch would feel in my body. My now (mildly) numb uterus was then measured by pushing a uterine through the cervix to determine the length of my uterus cavity. Once that was removed, the IUD itself was collapsed, inserted through the cervix and into the uterus, and then expanded and placed securely.
The final two steps induced more pain than I could have imagined. Brought to tears, I remember being fearful that any movement would tear something within me. I mustered what I could to unsuccessfully control my shaking legs. No breathing patterns can ease the pressure of your uterus desperately wanting to expel the unfamiliar tenant trying to take up residence in its precious space. But, truly, it was that no warning would have prepared me for the realization that this was only a taste of the pain associated with becoming a woman.
People tell you it is unpleasant and uncomfortable, but getting an IUD is worth it to relieve the fear of unwanted pregnancy and avoid the side effects of birth control pills. Having experienced severe mood swings and depression on the oral birth control I was prescribed, it seemed logical and normal to get an IUD. Yes, it was logical and normal, but it was also distressing and alarming. It hurts to prevent pregnancy, and as a teenager, I was unaware of how it would impact me. To be so violently confronted with my sexuality and anatomy feels reminiscent of the other moments in life when I would feel equally alone and afraid in my pain, but expected to stomach it because of my gender.
I walked for 20 minutes home alone after the procedure and bled for 30 days after that.
Now, I share my experience with my IUD freely with my friends, wishing I had someone to guide me through my own. Going into this procedure and leaving it was made much more difficult in a world of silence surrounding women’s birth control and pain. I was anxious that my partner would be disgusted by the menstrual spotting I experienced for a month post-procedure or that they would get bored of my hesitance to be intimate because I did not fully trust the little device inside of me allegedly preventing pregnancy.
In high school, there was an aura of coolness around those using hormonal contraception as a marker of their maturity and entrance into adulthood. The silence about the reality of the procedures some undergo, I surmise, was prevalent because of the power of sex in that space and the desire to confidently step into the group experimenting with their sexual citizenship.
Now, my IUD brings me sexual freedom and a notion of protection completely in my control; however, shame was not my desired feeling as I entered intimate relationships. And more, shame is not what you should feel when taking steps to protect your bodily autonomy and rights. Given the state of current reproductive rights and the restrictions placed on those carrying children, I want to share my own journey, now having my second IUD in place.
Twice I have opened my legs to protect myself, and I have reflected far more than twice on my authority even at the age of 16 to do so. I have also reflected on my privilege to have a mother who helped me make the appointment and dropped me off, supporting my coming of age. However, the general silence, the societal silence, that still remains around procedures like getting an IUD ensures that the pain, side effects, and aftermath are still consistently stigmatized.
I’m not writing this to be inspirational but instead to be honest and hopeful that perhaps someone who reads this will not feel quite as scared. I hope that more people can walk out of a gynecologist’s office filled with pride rather than with shame.
Written Anonymously for the Harvard Independent.