Once upon a time, I wrote a blog post that had a warning label on it. Male readers were advised to move along and read something else. I’m slapping up that same disclaimer today. Seriously, boys, go find something else to read. You’ll thank me.
The blog post was about birth control, specifically mine, and how I had once again, fallen prey to my particular brand of math-impairedness.
One would think it couldn’t get worse. But one would be wrong.
So for those of you reading along, you may realize that at the end of that long and rather embarrassing tale, I made it VERY clear to myself that I had to get an appointment when Karin turned 13 to have my IUD replaced. And those of you who CAN do math are now sitting there shaking your heads and saying quietly to yourselves: “But didn’t Karin turn 14 this year?
Why yes, yes she did. And in that space of 365 days between her 13th and 14th birthday do you think I thought about getting that phone call made and that appointment booked? Why yes! Yes, actually, I DID. I thought about it frequently, but somehow, just like with getting around to posting, I never actually got around TO IT. (Here’s where fond memories of my dad and his little wooden disks with TO IT printed on them come to mind. Mom, can you rustle up one of those for me? Obviously, I need it still.)
About 2 months ago, I got the incentive an appointment paper sent to me from the women’s clinic in Eslöv with a reminder that I needed to book a pap smear. Oh, good! I thought, That’s perfect! I’ll call and make that appointment and ask to have my IUD replaced at the same time. So I did. Only 1 year and 2.5 months late. Not nearly as bad as last time, right? Progress!
When I called to book the appointment and explained the situation to the nurse on the phone, she told me that she would write me a prescription for the replacement IUD and I had to go buy it at the pharmacy and bring it with me to the clinic. I didn’t remember having to do that last time, but okay, whatever. She also questioned my wanting to replace the IUD at all, at my age, she argued, it wasn’t strictly necessary. But the fact that I don’t menstruate to speak of and the added benefit of it balancing/stabilizing hormones, made me determined to continue with it. After all, god forbid, what if I decided NOT to replace it and went back to having to sullenly welcome Aunt Flo every month? AND the slim but still possible issue of pregnancy. No thanks.
A couple of days before the appointment, I went to the pharmacy which is conveniently located in the same building where we do our grocery shopping, in the next village over. I took my slip up to the counter when my number was called and the pharmacist, a lady only maybe 5-7 years older than I, tapped in the prescription info and went to fetch the IUD. Which she brought back and set on the counter in front of me.
It was a slim box about a foot and a half long. 45 centimeters long.
*holds up hands in the air and measures that for you*
I don’t know what expression was on my face, but I looked at that box and then I looked up at her, and she started giggling. And then I did. And we stood there in the pharmacy, laughing our heads off, and I said, “where is THAT supposed to go??” and she finally choked out, “don’t worry, I swear it will fit.”
Even Anders raised his eyebrows when I came home with it, which made me giggle all over again.
***
I went to the appointment and had the pap smear done and then the nurse went in to fetch the IUD. Except she couldn’t find it. Or rather she couldn’t find the little threads by which you are supposed to be able to grasp and gently remove it with.
So she wrote me a referral to Specialisthuset in Eslöv, to the Gyn department there, and told me they’d have to do an ultrasound to locate it, and then the nurse would be able to remove and replace it. I had that appointment today, 18-inch long box in hand.
Guess what? She couldn’t find it either. It didn’t show up at all on the ultrasound, though she pointed out a shadow that she thought could maybe be part of it. She couldn’t find it …manually, either. I won’t even tell you what she did to try, because I’m still traumatized.
And now I have another referral, to the hospital in Lund, where they will have to give me relaxants and possibly put me under anesthetic and go in and get the damn thing. It’s just like when I was pregnant with both my kids and I had to have c-sections to get them out. NO ONE WANTS TO LEAVE MY WOMB.
I said at the end of that post six years ago that it was the only journal post ever in which I’d talk about this stuff, but I guess I lied. Honestly. Who else does something like this happen to? Anyone?