“Finally. Finally. Finally.”
“I told my mom that I didn't want to have babies. She said, 'That's okay, just have a lot of dogs.' If only it'd had been that easy to find a doctor who'd listen to me.”
When I was a kid, maybe 12 or 13, I told my mom that I didn’t want to have babies. She said, “That’s okay, just have a lot of dogs.” If only it’d had been that easy to find a doctor who’d listen to me.
21 years old when I asked my PCP about getting my tubes tied in Alaska. “You might change your mind.”
23 years old when I got pregnant and ended up getting an abortion and a copper IUD, which almost killed me for a full seven years.
25 years old when I got married to someone who was in full support of my not wanting to birth children.
26 years old when I asked my primary care provider and then my gynaecologist about getting my tubes
tied in North Dakota. “You might change your mind. Wait until you’re 30. What does your husband think?” (I was a full-time birth photographer at the only hospital in town, you’d think the staff there would have rallied for me…)
30 years old when I asked my PCP about getting my tubes tied in Salt Lake City, I was only able to have my copper IUD removed and then replaced by Skyla.
36 years old when I met a new provider in Washington state and wept while begging her to
remove my tubes. She swore to fight for me, but said she didn’t know if she’d be able to do it herself because she worked at a Catholic owned
hospital (in a sanctuary state). I had to jump through every hoop imaginable, but I did it.
9 weeks from my first appointment with Dr. H, three days before my insurance rolled over into a new year, I had a bisalp and ablation.
Finally. Finally. Finally.
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