In a few days, my hormonal IUD, which has made a wee home inside my uterus for almost exactly five years, will be removed at my local sliding-scale women’s health clinic. Between walking into the lobby plastered with vintage feminist posters, paying a $50 fee, and having the process performed by a small team of female doctors, it should take less than twenty minutes and be less painful than the insertion. In case of severe cramping, however, my partner has offered to get me ice cream afterward. Noice.
It’s only natural to want a little ceremony on this day. The IUD (short for Intrauterine Device) served its noble purpose effectively, and although I technically could have it in another year according to recent studies, I’d rather give my body’s hormones some time off, thank the IUD for its service, and bid it farewell.
But there are others who truly deserve my gratitude: the women who were there that day when I, a freaked-out 27-year-old in the new Tr*mp’s America, placed my feet into a pair of stirrups and my trust in their hands. I knew then, as I know today, that I was taking action to defend myself against an uncertain future. The symbolism was not lost on bleeding-heart-feminist me; I won’t hesitate to tell my granddaughters that I was trying to both protect myself from unwanted pregnancy and send a giant metaphorical middle finger to Tr*mp.
Many of us recall November 2016 as an exceptionally dark and chaotic time for our country. In the wake of the election — which came, cruelly, a week after the Cubs’ first World Series championship victory in 108 years — I woke up every day in varying levels of panic about just how bad it would get. Tr*mp had shown us who he was already, and those who later said they “regretted” their choice to vote for him because they had wanted to “give him a chance” always made me sick with rage. How could they not have known? Were the 26 allegations of sexual misconduct not enough, or the horrific audio recording released by Access Hollywood of him encouraging sexual assault of women? The mockery of a disabled reporter? The overt racism and hate he mongered toward Latino immigrants, labeling them “rapists and drug dealers” with “some, I presume…[being] good people”? It was obvious that his lack of any government experience, chronic narcissism, and fascist-friendly tendencies should be would spell disaster in just about every way. Even more so, I feared all his cronies and lackeys at the ready in his administration, the impending Supreme Court appointees, and the policies his party would push to unravel years of social progress.
It wasn’t until September of 2016 that I began to feel a distinct fear that despite all the polling favoring Hillary, something wasn’t right. History wasn’t on the Democrats’ side, after all: in just about every two-term presidency of the last several decades, the political pendulum has swung back the other direction with the alternate party taking executive power. I knew how firmly rooted misogyny was (and still is) in our country, and worried that despite Hillary’s obvious over-qualification for the job, that enough men and women simply weren’t ready for a female president. Feeling my dread grow with each passing day, I called the Chicago Women’s Health Center and scheduled an appointment to get the Mirena IUD. I was told it had a lower risk of complications than the copper IUD, and would last 5 years, a year past the duration of a possible Tr*mp presidency. I was later told by my doctors during a “strings-check” (every now and then, the strings that extend from the device should be checked to ensure they’re still in place) in 2018 that they had been inundated with people calling to get IUD’s since about July of that year. The statistics bear out that this was a national trend, and it continued upward after the election. Women like me were scared, but we acted quickly, not wanting to gamble on our reproductive freedom.
So, after calling to book our appointments, we mobilized. We gathered somberly in the basements of churches and in each other’s apartments and on video conferences and discussed worst-case scenarios. I remember starting an email thread between myself, a friend, and old-school reproductive rights activist Marilyn Webb, and asked her for advice on how to organize. She told us that the most effective activism would be defined not by her, but by us: we were the ones who knew how to reach each other best in this new age of social media. I had the realization that our generation was tasked with something greater than we’d predicted and quite simply, we had to figure out how to save ourselves. Tr*mp was a wild card, and an unprecedentedly ominous foe. There was no playbook.
When women and their advocates gathered by the millions across America on January 20th, 2017, it was a temporary but needed respite from the doom and gloom, and a reminder of how we weren’t alone in how fucking angry we were. Still, the sense of alarm and anarchy came right back. As we feared, Tr*mp was worse than we could have imagined. Despite so many of us fighting and rallying and organizing, he made sure his legacy of degrading and disempowering women remained strong, and filled Supreme Court vacancies with anti-choice judges like Neil Gorsuch and Amy Coney Barrett.
And yet: on a dark night on November 16, 2016, I found a source of lasting hope, light, and gratitude. And…well, short-lived but excruciating pain. (Worth it, though: read on, ye fearful ones who are considering an IUD.)
Yep, the insertion hurt a lot more than I was ready for. Pap smears of my past had always toed the line between painful and uncomfortable — I always hated how the gynecologist would say, “Okay, speculum’s going in, so you’ll feel just a pinch…” while I felt the top of my cervix literally being scraped by the cold metal tool.
A few hours prior, I had picked up a prescription for a pill that would thicken my cervical mucus, something given to pregnant women when they’re nearing their due date. I was also advised to take 600mg of Ibuprofen at least 30 minutes before the appointment, and to eat enough during the day to avoid dizziness or fainting, which I am prone to. I did all of those things and had anxiety all day, and still wasn’t prepared for how much it would hurt.*
After a quick explanation of what was about to happen by a nurse practitioner, the doctor and her two assistants entered the room, ready to go. One of the assistants was an older woman with a gray braid and a kind face, who stood by my side helping me to relax and guiding me through deep breathing at strategic moments. My body tensed and trembled uncontrollably; noticing this and knowing how it would make the insertion more difficult, she held my hand tightly while counting. I don’t remember if I’d asked her to hold it, or she had offered. Meanwhile, the lead doctor asked me questions about my job to distract me, and to keep the focus off the fact that she was low-key performing a mini-surgery with no anesthesia. She was a petite blonde woman in her mid-forties who had entered the room in what can only be described as a “swoop”; she’d introduced herself quickly by name and title, and confidently said “I’ve done thousands of these. You’ll be fine,” before getting down to business. Her other assistant, whose appearance I can’t quite remember, stood by her side and watched, while also handing her sanitized equipment, holding my shaky legs as still as possible, and following the orders given by her superior in a clipped, calm voice.
A minute or so in, the doctor decided she had to remove the IUD and try again. I whimpered, already in fight-or-flight mode, but knowing I had to stick with it. She either sanitized or replaced the device and reinserted it, at which point I felt cramping from the base of my abdomen spreading upward. I was experiencing to date the worst pain of any I’d encountered in my life. The woman with the braid continued to comfort me while I yelped, “It hurts!” like a small child. I remember looking to her and thinking: she is like my mother. And in this situation, if she were here, this is what my mother would do.
When it was done and the three of them had left the room, I turned my head to the side and wept. It wasn’t due to the pain, however — the worst of that was over. I’m not saying this to sound tougher than I am; while I have certainly cried in pain before, it’s usually been more out of frustration than the severity of the pain. After all, I had never broken, sprained, dislocated, or fractured anything. No, the tears came out of overwhelming joy and relief. It was over. I was okay. These women had done right by me; they’d had my back. To them, maybe they had just done their job, and I was the 7th or 12th woman to get the same procedure done that day, and they’d borne witness to far more traumatic procedures. To me, they were heroes of the purest kind. The simple, nurturing kindness of the woman at my side, combined with the highly skilled, competent women in front of me, at a terrifying time for American women in general, moved me so deeply I could not help but cry.
My experience at the Chicago Women’s Health Center that day should not have surprised me, as it is a well-established progressive, inclusive, and feminist clinic in the city. I’ve been going there since I moved to Chicago in 2010. The clinic has helped me through numerous trials and tribulations: they referred me for the removal of a lump (it turned out to be benign) in my left breast back in late 2011. They linked me to free STI testing when I was uninsured. They, unlike many male doctors I would see at places like my college campus, never doubted me when I said I had a UTI, and validated that I was in fact UTI-prone. They’d guided me thoroughly through different birth control options in the years prior. They provided me with free emergency contraception more than once. After I was sexually assaulted on the street, they provided me with counseling options. When I had abnormal Pap Smear results for a couple of years, they made sure to keep me informed and aware of what that meant, and never made me feel abnormal myself. In fact, I have never felt judged, undermined, or gaslit by anyone in that practice. Even when I struggled to pay, they never turned me away. When I disclosed that I’d had a female sex partner, they didn’t bat an eye (they are known for being one of the most queer-friendly organizations in Chicago). And, when they checked me out after each visit, the receptionist made sure to always ask that if they needed to call, was it okay to leave a detailed message at the phone number provided? They valued and respected confidentiality and discretion for their patients, while still proudly standing up for them, affirming them, and making them feel seen.
When I came home from my appointment that night to my Humboldt Park apartment, I felt a little loopy on the mild painkillers they’d prescribed me, and naturally I posted a grinning selfie “feelin ok #onpainkillers,” I said in the caption. I went on to mention that if the Affordable Care Act had not added contraception coverage to health insurance, I may likely have been unable to get this procedure done. I hyped up the Chicago Women’s Health Center and said the women there felt like “real-life angels” to me. I added, “those and all women are amazing.”
In retrospect, the part about “all women being amazing” is simplistic and probably an effect of the drugs that night. We are not a monolith. Not all women will have each other’s back, e.g. those who voted for Tr*mp or those who slut-shame female victims of rape. Not all women will feel the anguish many of us feel for our fellow women in Texas who can’t flee to another state to get an abortion after just six weeks.
But I have faith in us, simply because of what I felt on that night five years ago, and would feel again a few months later, surrounded by thousands of women and girls on State Street. I have faith because I know that a majority of all American women — yes, including white women, it turns out — voted against Tr*mp in both 2016 and 2020. I know now more than ever that women, especially those in reproductive healthcare, are unbreakable vertebrae on the backbone of American society. This knowledge got me through the Tr*mp years without becoming a full-on cynic. And my IUD? It got me through those nightmarish four years, too, sans accidental baby. Mission accomplished.
Compassionate, accessible healthcare for women may be too rare, but it is out there. We who choose to exercise our right to safe and effective birth control methods are not going anywhere. Those who deliver this needed care aren’t going anywhere, either. I doubt (fingers crossed) we will ever let a theocratic takeover turn our whole America into Margaret Atwood’s Gilead. Nah. Not on our watch.
I look forward to feeling that sense of pride and solidarity again in just a few days, surrounded by women I would trust with my life.
*Note: Another story on historical derogation of women’s pain within the medical community is forthcoming, so this issue — and particular example — will be revisited in that story. Stay tuned.
