Chapter, closed

Today I went to my OB to have the IUD put back in. I started crying on the way to the appointment, even though I'd been fine all morning, even though I hadn't cried in almost 24 hours. Just the thought of that office, the grey carpet, the dusty rose colored sofas with that weird 80s print in teal and gold. The nurses who are so nice every time they see me, always remembering my name now, being sure to smile big, and being extra careful not to ask me how I'm doing. The ultrasound room, the room where twice I have lain on that table, searching the monitor in vain for a blinking heartbeat, the movement of a leg, anything. I can picture so clearly the clothes I am wearing--the first time a flowered short sleeve top from Old Navy, the second a red turtleneck. I hear the silence in the room, feel my sweat starting, remember how I breathed--"I have to sit up now'--and ripped off the paper gown, swinging my legs down and holding my head in my hands, while my ob holds the wand, useless, in her hand.

No, I don't have nice memories of that office. The anticipation alone is enough to start the waterworks.

But I composed myself. Drove to the appointment, smiled at the receptionist. Listened to the nurse tell me a funny story, one I could tell she had practiced since I spoke to her earlier, confirming the appointment. Nodded when she confirmed which IUD I was getting. Undressed from the waist down--how many times have I done that in this room, and for what end?--grabbed a magazine to read, anything to keep my mind off what is happening, to stop the tears that are there, right there, filling up my eyelids at the slightest provocation. (In the parking garage I almost gasp with the effort of keeping them in, repeat to myself as mantra: it is okay, it is okay, it is okay, it is okay. And the elevator comes, another rider smiles at me, and it works, the tears stay put. At least for the ride up.)

"Are you sure?" my OB asks kindly. "We don't have to do this now." I nod, wiping my eyes, as tears squeeze out, a constant drip that I cannot plug. "Amy?" she asks again, and I realize she needs more from me, a more forceful response, a stronger sense that we are doing the right thing. I breathe in. "Yes", I say, struggling to keep my voice from cracking, but it comes out a whisper. "Is this really what you want?" my OB asks again. Furiously, I wipe away the tears. "No, no it's not what I want at all, it's not what I want. But I have to, I need to. My husband . . . I can't do it again." Pause. Louder. "Yes. Yes. Please."

A few cramps later it is done. Aside from a follow-up appointment in one month, I will have no reason to return to this office for a year.

(A little more than one year ago, that is when I had my old IUD removed. I remember the excitement, the anticipation. "Look", said my OB, pointing to the ultrasound, "you've got some great follicles here." "Oh, I don't know if I can convince my husband to start trying right away", I say with a smile, "so far he's only partially on board for this." "Well, go home, make him a nice dinner, open a bottle of wine--or two--and see what happens." And so I did.)