Contraception — A History Lesson
World Contraception Day is September 26th and we’re teaming up with Women Deliver and the Gates Foundation to post blogs about young people’s views on contraceptives.
World Contraception Day is September 26th and we’re teaming up with Women Deliver and the Gates Foundation to post blogs about young people’s views on contraceptives. I’m adding my two cents from the “not-so-young” woman’s perspective. Contraception and I have history. Sometime’s it’s worked and sometimes, not so much. The contraceptive history of my generation provides teaching moments for a new generation and for policy makers who think women should step back in time.
When I was born, the Pill was brand new. As the youngest child of a traditional Catholic mother, I’m only here because she didn’t use birth control. But, as the daughter of a woman who reminisced, “I wanted to be a journalist, but had children instead,” I knew I wouldn’t walk that same path.
Despite its’ prohibition on contraception, I received a balanced and thorough sex education at my Catholic high school. Still, getting my hands on contraception wasn’t easy. There were no free clinics or Planned Parenthood nearby. If I went to a private doctor, they would have called my mom. I was 17, took some risks and after a late period and a negative pregnancy test, decided I needed more than withdrawal and condoms. The doctor didn’t think I was responsible enough for the Pill, since I’d already had unprotected sex, so I bought an over-the-counter foam spermicidal product you squirted in the vagina before you had sex, or, if you were a fairly stupid teenager, more or less around the time you had sex. Spermicide is about 70% reliable when used correctly. I’d say my reliability rate was closer to 50/50.
I hid my birth control in a boot in my closet, covered by an old purse and lived in mortal terror of my mom finding it. She wasn’t just Catholic about contraception — she was CATHOLIC! When I came home from school one day my Mom was waiting for me and said she’d found something nasty in my closet. I felt a cold gripping fear until she said thousands of ants had discovered candy in my purse. I’ve never been more grateful for an infestation. Leaving them for me to clean up, she hadn’t noticed the heap of dead ants in my boot — innocent victims of spermicide.
Eventually, a sympathetic doctor prescribed birth control pills; then cancelled my prescription when they caused massive ovarian cysts. Scientists hadn’t fine-tuned the balance of hormones they’ve perfected in today’s sophisticated pills. Instead, they worked kind of like using a hand grenade to kill a spider. IUDs had a bad reputation for causing septic miscarriages and puncturing uteruses (today’s IUDs don’t do that), so that left the diaphragm as my only choice. It was awkward and inconvenient, but surprisingly effective and I didn’t get pregnant until I was darn good and ready.
At 27, my husband and I decided to start a family and I got pregnant immediately. It was a rough delivery and for a year after that birth, the diaphragm was uncomfortable. Since I was breastfeeding and not having periods, I thought the chances of getting pregnant were slim. We also lived in a tiny apartment with too many roommates and a newborn, so sex wasn’t high on our list of things to do. Still, one broken condom and daughter number two was on her way.
After she was born, we returned to the diaphragm. By 30, I’d finished nursing school with two kids, was working the night shift while taking care of aging parents, a sick sibling and her child and juggling madly. Having another child was out of the question, but so was celibacy. Thank God the diaphragm worked.
Eventually, we wanted one more baby. After our son’s birth, we were busier than ever with careers, kids, and aging parents and when we were sure we were done, done, done having children, my husband volunteered for a vasectomy. Our insurance insisted on a mandatory waiting period, to be sure that’s what we really wanted. They were unsympathetic when we said, “For God’s sake, we already have a houseful of kids and an 85-year-old grandpa living with us.” To this day, my husband and I are certain we never had sex without the diaphragm (and aren’t even convinced we had sex that month), but I got pregnant again. I cried, my husband laughed and our daughter joined us nine months later.
I was gun-shy after the vasectomy. My friends were already calling me the poster child for contraceptive failure. If anyone could get pregnant after a vasectomy, I figured I could. They’re only considered good-to-go when a semen analysis several months after surgery proves there aren’t any swimmers in the mix. One semen analysis wasn’t good enough for me. After insisting on several, our doctor told me to knock it off.
As a woman who’s worked full time while raising kids, I’m grateful I didn’t get pregnant younger or more often than I did. I’m grateful for my unplanned babies, but my job prospects and family dynamics meant I could handle it. As the mother of grown daughters, I’m grateful their birth control options are sophisticated, accessible, affordable, safe and mean they’ll be able to make their life dreams come true. But as a nurse who’s been at the bedside of countless mothers having babies they didn’t plan, don’t want and aren’t equipped to raise, all I can say is “There, but for the grace of God go I.”
My contraceptive history means I understand the religious and cultural attitudes that stand in the way of young women making decisions about contraception. I understand sneaking, hiding and feeling guilty about making personal choices that fly in the face of what authorities dictate is appropriate. I understand the frustrations of having insurance providers limit healthcare accessibility. And I understand that despite today’s political climate, women must never reverse history to a time when contraception wasn’t accessible, affordable and a private choice. We’ve come too far. It’s time to move forward.
