The Burdens of Fertility
I was 17 when I first went to the doctor’s office for contraception.
I sat fidgeting in front of the doctor, a man three times my age. I felt like a lost child, in a place I was not supposed to be. I wished that I hadn’t worn my school uniform, thinking that it would have made me look older. I looked around the fancy office, and grasped anxiously on my wallet, hoping that my weekly allowance and savings from my casual summer job would be enough to cover the costs of this private practice.
The doctor ran me through my very limited options. The pill was the obvious one, but I felt there were too many unanswered questions. What happens if I miss one pill? What happens if I take my pill at a slightly different time? Why is the list of possible side effects so long? What about long-term health problems? The option felt both burdensome and ineffective. The second option, taking a shot once every few months, was going to be too expensive. The third option, the Mirena IUD, was conceptually terrifying to me. I was not going to have a piece of plastic shoved up into my uterus without any anesthesia.
That left me with the rod. It was also very expensive for a teenager, but at least it was a one-off cost. It seemed easy, painless, and sustainable. I decided to get it as soon as possible.
I don’t remember if I had told anyone, but I’m doubtful I did. The whole thing seemed like something I was supposed to feel embarrassed about. I felt very alone in the procedure room. I closed my eyes and tried to think about something else as I felt the thick piece of plastic pushed underneath my skin. The local anesthesia stopped the pain, but it did not reduce the fear and discomfort.
I thought the procedure was going to be the hardest part, followed by three peaceful, infertile years. I was wrong.
In the days following the procedure, I had large bruises on my arm. There were horror stories about girls being called sl*ts when they went to school with these bruises visible. I put on a jumper, and I was determined — nothing could have possibly made me take it off until all the bruises were gone.
Of course, with my luck, a stinking hot day came, with the temperature going over 35°C. I still refused to take my jumper off. My friends looked at me strangely and asked if I was hot. I laughed awkwardly and said no, meanwhile feeling like I was melting.
The bruises went away, but I had a bigger problem: constant bleeding. It was both uncomfortable and incredibly unsettling. I went back to the doctor. Talking about my bleeding and discharge with a male doctor felt wrong. Society has taught me to keep my disgusting female hygienic problems to myself, and definitely not to burden strange men with them. He told me it was hormonal imbalance, and put me on what he explained as hardcore, heavy-strength hormone pills that I would only need to take for a week for the bleeding to stop.
The bleeding went away while I was taking the pills. It came back as soon as I finished them. I dragged myself back to the doctor, and he sent me off with another prescription, telling me it would work this time around. I bit my tongue as I swiped my card to pay for the very expensive pills that did not make me feel any better.
And the third time wasn’t the charm.
The doctor’s solution was now to put me on the contraceptive pills. Not on their own, but to be taken simultaneously with the rod. This was painfully ironic, considering the lengths I had gone through to not take the pills. To the doctor’s credits, they worked — the bleeding stopped. I was happy, because by this point, I had paid almost $1000 for doctor’s fees and hormone pills.
However, the consequences of this drug combination were beyond what I could imagine. My hair became dry and brittle. I gained weight while losing my appetite. Most of all, I felt like I lost control over my emotions. For three years, the drugs amplified my already strong emotions and frequent mood swings, considering I was a young person in the high-stress environments of year 12 and then university. I had angry outbursts, flashes of anxiety and panic, extreme reactions to insignificant situations. I frequently started heated arguments without fully knowing why, which only led me to feel extreme embarrassment and guilt afterwards. When I was happy, I felt incredibly happy; but when I was sad, I was profoundly sad. My close relationships were strained, and I was lucky to have my family and close friends tolerate and support me the way they did. I blamed all of this on being young, moving out of home, or perhaps just my sh*tty personality.
At the end of the three years, having moved away, I went to a new Melbourne doctor to once again ask for options. I explained my situation, and she was shocked. She said the rod should have been taken out 3 years ago. She said that this drug combination should never have happened. I thought that she probably has had similar experiences. I felt that I could trust her to empathise, and not to trivialise the side effects I had suffered from.
This time, I went with the Mirena IUD. As I laid on the stiff bed in the lifeless doctor’s office, naked from the waist down, staring at the ceiling with my legs spread, I was not hopeful. I felt like I had no other choice. The vaginal clamp was cold. It was a few minutes of nothing, then a sudden burst of intense, sharp pain deep within my abdomen. The doctor tried to calm me down as I let out a soft cry.
I felt resentful — why me? Why does my body have to go through this? Why do I have to feel this anxiety and embarrassment? Why is it my responsibility?
Why is my worth defined by both being fertile, and being able to control this fertility? I became a woman as soon as I was able to reproduce, an object of attraction and desire, a contributing member of society. But I wouldn’t be a woman worthy of respect and dignity unless I could make sure I don’t get pregnant until it’s the ‘right’ time. Until it’s socially appropriate and acceptable.
The IUD worked. The bleeding stopped after a few days. I started to lose weight. My skin felt better. Most of all, I felt as if the world was lifted off my shoulders. The outbursts, the panic attacks, the tantrums, the sporadic depression, all went away. My life felt almost immediately and drastically different. Brighter. Better. The IUD is not without concerns, including occasional bleeding, aches, and constant anxiety about it literally falling out of me. Nevertheless, I feel incredibly lucky. If the IUD hadn’t worked, I would have been left with virtually no other options. I struggle to imagine what I would have had to do.
And of course, I still have my mood swings and intense emotions, but I think those are just my sh*tty personality.
I wonder, at which point did I learn to stop listening to my body, even when it was begging me to stop? At which point did I learn to put contraception above my own physical and mental health? At which point did I learn to put contraception above my sense of control and autonomy over my own body?
I have grown critical and cynical of this responsibility that I have taken on, this sacrifice that I have been making, and this relentless pressure on my body. Despite that, I don’t think I will tolerate side effects less, listen to my body more, or put my health first. I don’t think I will stop contraception anytime soon.
I don’t think I really have a choice.
