IUD-Induced Lows and Highs
It turns out there are three ways to remove an IUD. The traditional method is for your GP to take it out during a routine visit. I’ve also known some women to yank them out themselves, presumably because they couldn’t be bothered to make an appointment for such child’s play. Then there is a slim percentage of women who must have them surgically removed by a gynecologist.
Me being me, it was no surprise that I recently fell into this last category.
I kept telling myself it’s no big deal. So it took a few appointments with different doctors intent on hooking a fish in the form of my IUD, using various forms of bait, while I revisited the feelings of labours past. So there was another month of waiting to see a gynecologist in her office, while she had a go at landing her fish, and she could show those GP’s who’s boss. So there was a day of fasting, a morning of waiting in the hospital, drugs in the form of suppositories and IV’s, the tiny inconvenience of getting my busy husband to show up in the middle of a workday to escort me home.
Okay, it was a little unfortunate, but not entirely without its highlights.
As I sat uncomfortably close to and inexplicably amongst senior citizens waiting for cataract surgery, I pretended to read my book. Beside me, a daughter argued with her elderly mother. The daughter was urging her mother to only dwell on the good things that happened in her life, but her mother replied, in her thick German accent, that there wasn’t much of those to go on, which promptly shut the daughter up, and the rest of us silently cheered.
I breathed patient breaths and tried not to think of the things I could be accomplishing while the minutes dragged into hours, the cataract patients came and went, and the nursing staff changed shifts. Finally they called my name, and lead me into an operating room, almost entirely covered in blue gauze save for the gleaming silver stirrups.
We made small talk while the nurse stuck little round things on my torso, and my doctor put an IV in my arm. They told me the things I’m looking at might appear to start floating, so I could have a little nap if I wanted. But there was no way I was going to miss floating light fixtures. As I stared intently at the one above me, waiting for it to dislodge from the ceiling, that tingly feeling I get halfway through a glass of champagne arrived in my limbs and nevermind the fixtures; I was floating.
I remember talking, and was shocked to hear my slurred words. I slowed my speech and tried to carefully form the words so that I might appear coherent, in the same way I had in high school after a dance. “WHAT – IS – IN – THIS – IV?” There was laughter from my nether regions, and they rambled off some medications which I clearly remember as being blah blah blah mixed with blah blah blah. Whatever it was, I understood in that moment how great it feels to be high.
I’m still anti-drugs, make no mistake, but just like every rose has its thorns, every cloud has its silver lining. Perception is everything.