the sharp sting of the feeding tube being inserted through your nose and down your throat is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. you didn’t want this, you fought and fought it. despite the fact the fight made your teeth rot with how much stomach acid was coming up your throat, it was worth it. you hate this; not having control. not being able to fucking feed yourself. being strapped to a fucking hospital bed, the rough leather cuffs shredding the skin of your wrists and ankles, “just in case you act out, i mean, the bug, er, the infection? makes you act out again.” they aren’t sure what to call it.
distantly, you hate the catheter inside of you. its insertion was more painful than the feeding tube, though it’s more comfortable than the feeding tube, now. it satiates a small part of your conscience, hidden behind layers of quickly-deteriorating self respect. you hate being subject to the will of the thing inside of you, consuming and expelling whatever it wants, and the doctors around you.
the doctors cause you more pain than your parasite, somehow. you wish that they let you go, sent you home with some painkillers and a “get well, soon.” you could’ve dealt with it. the shuffle of each white coat being pulled over a pair of bony shoulders, the snap of each shiny latex glove, the whistle of a metal cart covered in sterile instruments being pushed down a hallway, and the cold press of a stethoscope to your chest reminds you of the reason why you’re here in the first place. she had all of those same qualities; the coat, the gloves, the tools on the cart, the stethoscope. the woman who you trusted to help you in your time of desperate need put this thing inside of you. you can’t find it in yourself to be mad at your bug, your anger cast onto the woman who caused you so much pain by lying to you about what she was doing to you. every knock on your door and “hi, i’m gonna be your nurse this afternoon,” reminds you of the way she invaded your body. someone opens your mouth to take your temperature, and the heat of the thermometer under your tongue is similar to that of her fingers, pushing into your cunt around the speculum she’s used to force you open wide.
you should’ve been more careful. it was one google search, one stupid fucking ai overview, that told you to visit dr. mona heller, ob-gyn. you booked an appointment on her suspiciously conveniently available schedule for the very next day, ignoring the fact her website looked like an imitation of the dark web in a cronenberg film from twenty years ago. maybe it’s just outdated, she probably has better things to do, like save lives, than sharpen her graphic design skills.
her office was just as eerie as her website, plastic chairs with peeling edges lining the walls of the dull yellow waiting room. the receptionist was kind enough, though she avoided eye contact the entire time. bashfully, she reminded you to drink plenty of water before your appointment, they’d need to collect a urine sample to double check some things before placing the IUD. you aren’t sure why she said this to you like it was such a bad thing. you follow her instructions, because as long as you follow her instructions, you’ll be able to get the IUD today. “i know, we move quickly. it’s different than how other places do it, but it’s good,” she continues, handing you a massive stack of paperwork. “it’s all pretty simple, not worth your time, really, just make sure to sign at the bottom, and remember to drink up.”
and what choice do you have? you have to get this done today. you can’t risk getting pregnant, again, because you don’t want to have to get an abortion. not for any religious reasons, you just don’t want to put yourself through that pain. yes, this is a good choice, it’s for future pain reduction and nothing foreign growing in my uterus that will be dependent on me for its survival, you reassure yourself. good to get it done as soon as possible, you’re being smart.
you follow directions, you drink the..slightly..fizzy..? water from the fountain in the waiting room. it’s probably just something with the water pressure. you look around, to notice you’re the only one in the room besides the receptionist. you sit down in the least-disgusting chair, sipping your water. some news station drones on in the background, you count the linoleum tiles in front of you. the tiles are getting…closer? why are they getting closer to you? oh, ouch, why did your knees just hit the floor? oh god, well, at least the tile feels nice and cool on your cheek. okay. you will nap. smart to nap before an intense procedure like this.
that idiotic thought is the last thing you remember before waking up on a squeaky plastic chair which resembles a dentist’s chair more than something you’d see at the doctor’s office. you recognize stirrups come into view at your feet, though, so you must be in the right place. beyond them, framed plaques decorate the wall. even though you can’t make out what they say right now, they’re probably licenses, or something. they look legitimate, but your brain is foggy. how long was i asleep for? you stretch your arms and legs out slowly, relaxing in the chair, your head feeling heavy. wow, i might fall asleep again. just before you can doze off a second time, a woman with kind brown eyes, long, red hair, a white coat, and haha, wow, big boobs, walks into the room. “all done!” she says with a smile. “your IUD is safe inside of you.”
