In what has been an unprecedented turn of events, the stars aligned in such a way that in the span of 4 days I had 3 appointments solely dedicated to the health and wellbeing of my vagina. In 96 hours I was subjected to 3 pelvic floor exams, 2 attempts at an IUD insertion and one very confused pussy.
On Tuesday I scheduled an appointment with a GP in my local clinic to put in my long awaited IUD. An IUD for those who mayn’t be aware is a small, plastic, abstract looking crucifix that sits in your cervix, releasing hormones and fighting off sperm with the ferocity of a mini white Mike Tyson.
3 years ago most doctors I spoke to were horrified at the thought of attempting to insert an IUD into a conscious woman if she has not had children. For a woman who has had children to have an IUD inserted, it’s relatively simple. I’ve heard they glide into the cervix, as if it’s missed the company. The thought of forcing anything into a dormant cervix made doctors faces twinge with a face that I could only explain as “just had chinese torture methods explained to them”.
You could imagine my surprise when my GP recommended to have mine done at the surgery, with nothing more than a wheat pack, naprogesic, and nurse whose “really good at holding hands”. I was told that the procedure would be a lot easier if I had it done on my period, as the cervix is softer at this time (more pliable, easy to be swayed, I imagine?).
I planned the appointment to be on my second day of my period, but apparently my uterus runs on her own damn time. I explained to the doctor that my period hadn’t started but she seemed unconcerned. Perhaps, as I was thinking, because I was due any minute that my cervix was… soft enough? What do I know about vaginas? I just own one. It didn’t end up mattering. I assumed from everything I know about getting this thing put in your that the cervix is opened, the device is put in, and then it’s knives down – step away from the benches. This was not the case. What I was told after the fact is that the cervix is entered twice. Once to get a ‘sound’ which is a fancy way of saying they plunge a plastic ruler into your uterus to give them an indication of the size, and how far the device needs to be placed. Then they re-enter a second time to put the device in its final resting spot.
I don’t know what kind of gal this doctor thought I was, but she just kind of began by ramming the speculum inside of me. No warning. No countdown. Nothing. It’s not that it had a tremendously hard time getting inside me, I just would have liked her to assume that it COULD have been difficult. For my ego’s sake, she could have pretended it was going to be a big of a slog to get me going. It’s not like I expected her to rub my clit before she entered me, but it did feel like she was throwing a hot dog down a dirt road.
I have a high pain tolerance. I wish I didn’t – I thoroughly enjoy pain medications – but I do. This was nothing like I had experience before. Not long into the procedure my whole pelvic floor revolted against her, like an army defending their queen. I started experiencing extreme cramps as soon as she got near my cervix. I tried to think about Jon Zabat-Zinn, or at least what my psychologist had told me about him, and how we just need to accept pain as it’s only temporary. I tried, I really did, but the natural human response to being stabbed in the cunt isn’t to just ‘go with the flow’.
After many expletives and nearly ripping a pillow in half, I asked her if she was nearly done. She advised me she was nowhere near done, and I just burst into tears. She took out all 578 tools that were inside of me and I cried even harder. I cried because it hurt, I cried because I couldn’t just do it, and I cried because I knew the alternative was going to cost me so much more.
Aftewards, she explained to me in her office that it was strange, she had only unsuccessfully inserted an IUD two other times in 5 years. Does that mean I get a trophy? Or are you going to take my mugshot and put it in on your wall of shame? She just gave me the name of the place where I could have the IUD put in under IV sedation, and a quote for approximately $450 (assuming my Centrelink got sorted out and I can get a healthcare card). Yes, it would cost more if I didn’t have one.
Thursday rolled around and I began a 40 minute drive to Broadwater for a specialist gynaecologist appointment I had waited 6 months for. I had originally been on a waitlist closer to home, but about 2 months earlier they had called to say they could put me on a shorter list if I was happy to go down to Springfield. At this point I’d drive anywhere – even through Ipswich – for a bargain.
This appointment was because I had told my gynaecologist that I’d had some pain during sex and putting in tampons, and after an internal exam, she advised my uterus had very limited fleixbility which could be due to endometriosis. The only way to diagnose this however, would be through laparoscopic surgery. Fuck yeah, being a woman is so easy and cool.
After 40 minutes with no air con (I also can’t afford to fix that), I sat in the waiting room an extra hour as I tried to read my book, ignoring the incredibly enticing shit fight-hell fire that was a married at first sight rerun.
It felt worth it because my doctor was amazing. She was young, professional, and called me darling in a way that made my insides warm. We chatted about my concerns, all of my medications, how I peed, and even got to tell her about my anal prolapse (a story for another time?). I told her I was attempting to get my IUD inserted again tomorrow, but she quickly informed me she could actually put it in, today, for free. While my mind began to spin with how ridiculous the public health system is, and how actually, yes, I’d love to save $450! I explained I truly just hoped that the next time that anyone is that close to my cervix that I’m knocked out cold, or it just straight up ends my life.
As expected and anticipated, my doctor explained that she would like to do an internal exam to see what the happedy-haps was. If I had to recommend a way to be entered by a stranger, I’d recommend the way this doctor did it. She lubed up the speculum and when our conversation came to a natural end she said, “Alright, I’ll get you to take a couple deep belly breaths…” to indicate it was time to start. It went a lot smoother than Tuesday, but it was still about as good as hard cold plastic to the cooch can feel. Of course, the internal exam followed. It was much like any other one I’ve had, except halfway through the Doctor and I locked eyes. By accident, I have to assume. She was just trying to gauge my reaction and make sure she wasn’t hurting me but I am however, still convincing my heart that we’re not actually in love.
The doctor left the room to speak to her superior and I was left with the nurse. While she was remaking the bed for the next soon-to-be-happy customer, I made a quick joke I knew would land. “I hope somebody at home makes the beds for you!” She laughed immediately. It was the least I could do for somebody who had just seen day 2 period blood run down a stranger’s asshole. “I had to train my husband!” she replied. “He was a 45 year old bachelor, I had to teach him!” … “God, we really do it all”. I thought.
When the doctor returned she confirmed my gynaecologist’s original recommendation of having laparoscopy surgery, an investigative procedure to scope out my insides and see if there’s uterine tissue where there straight up, should be none. To ease my concerns, she advised me that 50% of women have some form of endometriosis, and where mine probably located is the most common place for it to occur. I’m just happy to be one of the girls, really.
Enter Friday. After my abysmal attempt at having my IUD inserted while I was conscious, I lined up an appointment to knock me out. I had contacted a clinic my Mum reminded me about, where I had an IUD inserted a few years ago. It costs me half the price of whatever my GP recommended and I got an appointment for that week. Does this brew some very colourful and unattractive feelings I have about the current healthcare system we have in this country? Yes, quite a lot! Will I get into it now? Mmm, we mustn’t…
There were a lot of forms, a lot of double checking forms and a lot of waiting, but if anything I was excited for this to be all over. As I sat in the secondary waiting area in my cap and gown, I started to draft an apology to my vagina for the hellish week we had been through.
Eventually, when I was called into theatre they asked me to take off my undies and place them in a basket, along with my key to a locker that had my belongings in it. The basket felt huge next to this pair of underwear and key. A wave of cruel realisation washed over me because I had essentially handed over my whole life, and it was not much at all. Maybe I’ll become a minimalist to save face?
When I woke up (which I’m told was only 10 minutes later) I felt amazing. I truly felt incredible. It was as if I had just consumed the biggest, softest valium and I was floating on a cloud. I was out of my mind, and excited to be there. I was greeted by a nurse, and somehow we started to talk about her date that evening. She was very giddy because he, apparently, had ticked all of her boxes. She showed me a picture on her phone and I remember telling her he had “a kind face”. I’ve never said anything like that before in my life? I really couldn’t see much yet, all I could make out beyond the sleeve tattoos and bald head was that he was smiling. Smiling = kind, my custard brain qualified.
Eventually the nurse eventually helped me out of the bed, where she kindly informed me my underwear “should be able half way up”. A kind gesture from the surgeon, but I really wish I had changed my pad.
In the recovery room I was sat next to a Canadian woman I had seen in the waiting room, who I could tell, was feeling just as lit as I was. I don’t drink anymore, but like drunk me I was just fanging for a chat. We instantly hit it off. She asked if the guy with me was my partner and if he did comedy, which is a yes to both. She remarked about how she’d seen him before at the Powerhouse and had thought he was hilarious. I relayed this back to my boyfriend via text, along with a very bad selfie to prove I was alive. I’m just happy he got something out of all this really.
I had some cramping from the get go which was disappointing because last time it went in without a hitch. I looked back on the week and thought “Ah yeah… you know what… nah, fair enough…” and quietly sucked down some panadol, nurofen and a strawberry jelly. The nurses advised me I was to have a wee and then I was free to go. With that, my boyfriend signed me out back into the world, we got a Didi home and I slept for another 4 hours. This was not necessarily a side effect of sedation, more of a “you know what kid, fuck it, you’ve earned it!”
“Violated” or “traumatized” would be too big of words to be thrown around here. Everything I did was consensual and for the overall well-being of my body, but after this week I am left with this feeling of being seperated from my body. There’s this feeling of not really owning myself because I’ve had all these other people inside of me, telling me how it should and shouldn’t be. There is this part of me that feels like it almost needs to… heal? Is that too much of a buzzword? I just need time to come back into myself. I don’t know if there’s some sort of special meditation I can do? Some sort of rose quartz crystal I can rub? Maybe I just need science to catch up so I can just shrink myself down give my vagina a hug?
I think realistically, if I don’t have to have another goddamn internal pelvic exam for the rest of my life, I might just be alright.