From crying to laughing (gas) at the OB-GYN

I had been bleeding for nearly a week — the low-grade, inconvenient kind that serves as a constant, pulsing reminder that something isn’t right.

My Mirena removal two weeks prior had been unsuccessful. My cervix, apparently, had opinions. I went home with the IUD still in, sore and a little defeated, and spent the next several days doing the math on whether my pain was "normal" or whether I should be worried. A week of bleeding, followed by my period, and now I was signed up for more.

I was tired when I walked into the follow-up. It was early, I was still waking up, and I was carrying two weeks of cervical drama in my body.

The NP came in with a trainee. She was professional and efficient, opening a drawer and pulling out a speculum while already mid-sentence, coaching the student as she moved. I felt that particular lurch of deja vu. I knew exactly where this was going because I had already been there. Same drawer. Same instrument. Same outcome, probably.

I stopped her.

The appointment had been booked incorrectly. This was supposed to be an ultrasound-assisted removal, and the scheduling error was now everyone’s inconvenience. The NP, understandably busy and following the chart in front of her, had to pivot. She left to sort out the logistics, and I was left alone in the room.

That’s when I started crying.

They came back with an ultrasound machine and nitrous oxide.

I’ve watched the women on Secret Lives of Mormon Wives use nitrous for Botox appointments. Casually. Like it’s a warm towel at a nice restaurant. I thought about that while the NP set up the equipment and felt a complicated mix of amusement and something less funny.

The procedure still hurt. But it worked. The Mirena is out. I drove home, ate breakfast, and went to work.

What stays with me isn’t just my own experience, but the culture of "grinning and bearing it." IUD insertions and removals are routinely performed without any real pain management. This is standard practice, not a personal failing of any one nurse or doctor.

Women have to be their own advocates. The medical community is only just beginning to accept that "cramp-like sensation" is often a polite euphemism for "blinding pain."

And it doesn’t stop there. Women bear the overwhelming physical and mental burden of pregnancy prevention. The hormones, the devices, the procedures, the side effects, the follow-up appointments, the weeks of unexplained bleeding. It’s a lot to manage quietly while the rest of life keeps moving.

Sometimes self-advocacy looks like a calm, clinical conversation. Sometimes it looks like crying in a paper gown.