One Gynecologist Appointment for Two, Please
Why I brought my husband to my IUD insertion
“It’s because of Eve that you’re here right now.”
My husband prattled, nervously, as I lay splayed on my gynecologist’s examination table, feet in stirrups and speculum in me.
“Really, this is not the right time for this conversation,” I said curtly through the cramps.
Despite his best intentions to distract me, I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to seriously discuss the collective punishment of womankind for one (likely fictional) woman’s decision to eat an apple.
But I couldn’t really blame him. Though I, undressed from the waist down with a stranger’s gloved fingers inside me, was the one in the physically awkward position, it couldn’t exactly be comfortable watching your partner’s IUD placement.
Birth control always made me feel kind of lonely.
It’s something about the way we talk about it: in whispered tones, behind closed doors, a topic totally unfit for broad daylight.
When I was younger, getting my hands on any pregnancy prevention method felt like a secret mission to procure black-market goods. I’d take lone trips to the doctor’s office, the pharmacist, the university health clinic, secretively asking for…
