To My Missing IUD, Wherever You Are
Misadventures in birth control.
The check-in area at the hospital is a row of cubicles. It feels like a bank. I’m sitting there signing in for my second pelvic X-ray when the check-in girl asks, “Do you mind if I ask you why you’re here?”
I could tell she had seen something odd on the screen — her curiosity wasn’t piqued from the insurance information she was processing. If I were writing this scene about a fictional woman, I might have her lean in and lower her voice to a husky whisper because birth control is precious and private.
But instead I leaned back like I was settling in with a cup of coffee and said, at a conversational volume, “My IUD is missing. They’re trying to find it with an X-ray.” The check-in girl’s eyes widened.
“Oh. My. God,” she said.
I laughed and said, “horrifying, right?” because ever since this ordeal started, I’d been waiting for someone to join me in acknowledging the absurdity of it.
“Do you know anyone who’s gotten the birth control implant? The one that goes in your arm?” she asked. “I’m getting it next week.”
“I actually do,” I said. “She had her period constantly and had them dig it out last week.”
