“Would you like to keep it?” my gynecologist asked, twirling my removed IUD like a swizzle stick.

Keep it...people do that? I thought, struggling to feign interest facially.

Her tone bordered on enthusiasm. I sensed there must be a cohort of women who liked this sort of thing. But I wasn’t one of them. Still, I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. And I couldn’t think clearly with her face still inches away from my fluorescently lit, exposed vagina.

“Oh. Well, sure,” I muttered.

“You do?” my husband interrupted.

My six-foot-two, cisgender husband was oversized and out-of-place in this 8’x10’ exam room. Though, I wanted him there. And he wanted to be there, too. My IUD was removed for a reason—we would soon start trying to have a baby. His interruption wasn’t accusatory or judgmental. Rather, it was code for: I don’t buy that you actually want to keep this thing.

He was right. I didn’t.

“No actually, that’s okay, thanks anyway,” I corrected.

“That’s fine. Some people like to save them.”

I’d disappointed the enthusiast. I’d shown my cards, I wasn’t part of the cohort—those who reveled in all things reproduction-related. Though, I’d already been a downer earlier when tepidly answering her questions:

Did we need another form of birth control? No.

Does this mean we were planning to get pregnant? Yes.

Did we have any pregnancy planning questions for her? No.

Her face had brightened, searching for the same light in mine. But I didn’t give that to her. I simply wanted to get in, get the IUD out, and punt on the rest.

I’ve always been squeamish about the biologically female body – my body. My friends who are mothers seem to talk so effortlessly with the language of pregnancy. The hormones. The fluids. The placenta. I didn’t want to talk about it, barely wanted to think about it, neither of which paired well with my intention to become pregnant.

“Well, you’re all set. Just keep in mind that your period will be returning, which can be an adjustment.”

My period and I had spent eight-years apart, ever since my first IUD. In truth, I hadn’t thought about it much. And I didn’t know then but in less than a week I would be reunited with both my period and a forgotten feeling.
---
After my eight-year sabbatical, the feminine care aisle at CVS felt both foreign and familiar. Scanning the shelves, I was surprised by how little the technology had changed. My climate-anxiety sensibilities had hoped that feminine products would’ve categorically become more environmentally friendly. Though, some packages now boasted “organic”. Whatever that meant. Searching for the right product reminded me of shopping with my mom at thirteen-years-old. Except, this time, I was thirty-three and with my husband.

“So, what do you need?” This too was my husband’s attempt to be supportive. He wanted to understand what I bought, how this worked. But...what did I need? I couldn’t seem to recall.

“What about this?” my husband asked, holding up a brand I didn’t recognize. Sometimes it felt that he was more comfortable with my body than I was.

“I’m looking for something more environmentally friendly, recyclable even...”

“Shouldn’t you just get what you like...for something like this? Maybe this isn’t the area to save the environment.”
He didn’t say it, but he also meant that we were running late for a party at my in-laws’ house. So, I needed to hurry up.

My eyes cascaded the aisle colors, blue packages with yellow writing, pinks, purples.
Still the same vernacular was used; light—regular—super. The familiarity gave me a nostalgic comfort and revived confidence. I grabbed my old standbys; Tampax® Pearl Regular and a box of Stayfree® pads for nighttime. Muscle memory.

“I’m good. I’ll meet you in the car.”

As I walked back to the bathroom – my memory jolted to the first time my period threatened to disrupt a party.
---
At thirteen, I’d been invited to a lake party with upperclassmen. Desperate to go, there was only one problem – my period was flowing heavily. My Catholic, toxic-shock-syndrome-fearing mother didn’t allow tampons. So, I wore pads exclusively. But a soggy, bunchy pad wouldn’t work with my bikini. My mom took pity on me and allowed a tampon just this once. But one more problem—I didn’t know how to use one.

To me, my vagina was just the part I could see looking down. So, like a hot dog in a bun I put the tampon inside my labia. Unsurprisingly, this was terribly uncomfortable and didn’t stay in-place.

“Mom, I don’t understand where it goes!”

“If you just let me in your room, I can show you...”

“No way!”

“Well, just use that handheld mirror I gave you and you’ll see where it goes.”

The handheld mirror view terrified me. Too many unfamiliar folds, shapes, and holes. I gave up and stuck a pad to my bikini liner, underneath a pair of shorts.

My last hope was that I’d been told one’s period stops in water. I now understand that it doesn’t stop in water like a light switch, rather, water pressure can induce a temporary stop in flow in some women. But the hope of that was enough for me. In retrospect, it was a very risky move to go pad-less in a light-colored bikini. But it worked. My period stopped flowing for the whole of the lake party. I remember being amazed, thinking, look at what my body can do.
---
As I closed the door to the CVS bathroom, it struck me that I was finally alone. No gynecologist, no mother, no husband. Just me and my body. I opened a tampon and, now fully confident in its placement at thirty-three years old, inserted it. Though, perhaps I was too confident. I didn’t even sit on the toilet to do so – I sort of semi squatted in the room. As I walked out of CVS I felt another familiar sensation—a prairie dog out of its hole, a protruding, semi-inserted tampon.

“Oh my god – are you okay?” my husband said as he saw me limping to the car.

“Yep, fine, just didn’t go in all the way.”

“That can happen?”

“Oh yeah – all the time.” I said, noticing the returned authority in my own voice.

As I sat beside my husband on our drive to the party, I could feel menstrual cramps, and the discomfort of the half-inserted tampon. I realized these feelings were solely mine, happening in my own body. Just mine. Just me.

I liked having this secret conversation of sensations swirling within my body. I realized that I’d missed it.

Perhaps that’s how pregnancy could feel too.

That I might also say, look at what my body can do.

- Sara Schreur

Sara Schreur is a writer living in Boston, Massachusetts. She geeks-out about all things writing, even crafting emails at her marketing day job. Her writing often examines close relationships – to others and herself. She is a recent alumna of the 2022-23 GrubStreet Essay Incubator Program. This would be her first published piece.