IUD

Before deciding to get an IUD (Intrauterine Device, a form of long-term birth control), I did a lot of preparation. I read many articles, talked with my female friends about their experiences, watched videos, browsed forums, and even wrote down around 20 possible questions to ask my doctor.

I scheduled two consultations: the first was to understand the different types of IUDs (I only considered hormonal ones—Kyleena or Mirena, and eventually chose Kyleena because its size, hormone dosage, and side effects seemed a better fit for me), the procedure itself, options for pain management and support, as well as post-procedure care; the second was to confirm, once again, the details of the process.

The question of anesthesia surprised me.

The clinic did not offer local anesthesia, only two options: either take painkillers in advance, or undergo general anesthesia. Local anesthesia (usually an injection of lidocaine into the cervix) is available in some countries; it can temporarily block nerve signals and ease the sharp pain during insertion. But in many places, doctors and clinics simply don’t provide it. And while general anesthesia guarantees a pain-free procedure, it comes with higher risks, and is rarely recommended for what is considered a “minor” procedure. So the most common approach is to have the patient take painkillers beforehand and “just bear it.” Yet behind this so-called “standard protocol” lies a deeper, long-standing issue: women’s pain is often dismissed or downplayed.

In the end, I decided not to take general anesthesia. I was afraid of losing control and didn’t want to hand my body over completely to medication. So, following the doctor’s advice, I took painkillers ahead of time, along with medication to help prevent excessive uterine cramping. I thought I had prepared myself as best as I could, but when I finally faced that piercing pain, I truly understood what it means to carry the inborn suffering that women endure.

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The procedure itself lasted no more than five minutes, yet when we stepped out of the hospital and checked the time, more than an hour had passed.

Within those five minutes, there were two moments of pain I will never forget.

The first was the pain of invasion, like my cervix being slowly overtaken. The gradual intrusion made every muscle in my body tense; I could feel myself being forced open, forced to endure.

I thought it was over.

I almost exhaled in relief.

But the second wave came: sharper, fiercer, like a knife twisting deep into my uterus. It was no longer just local; my whole being was swallowed in an instant by pain that consumed me 100%. I felt gripped by a suffocating force, every breath was torment, because the pain showed no sign of easing. My consciousness nearly slipped away from my body.

Tears spilled out without warning.

I couldn’t form words.

The doctor spoke softly: “All done. How are you feeling?”

The whole time, Beans was right beside me, playing my favorite songs, holding my hand, repeating over and over: “You’re doing so great. This will pass. I love you. Breathe. Breathe. That’s it. You’re amazing.”

After a while, the intensity eased slightly, but the pain lingered, leaving me deeply uncomfortable.

I paused for a long moment before I could slowly whisper: “I don’t know.”

As I stepped off the operation table and walked toward the changing room, I turned and caught sight of a drop of blood.

My stomach clenched instantly.

I don’t even know why, but in that moment, a wave of sheer panic overtook me.

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My very first period arrived on a Saturday when I was in sixth grade.

Both my parents were at home with me in Urumqi that day.

I remember turning to my mother and saying: “Mama, look, why is there this reddish-brown stain on my underwear?” 

She looked and gently told me: “That’s your period. Congratulations, you are now a woman.”

My father’s face lit up with a look I couldn’t quite understand, and he cooked a whole table of delicious food for lunch.

Later, my mother took me out to buy pads, warm patch, and other thoughtful little items. That same day, we went back to Changji to see my grandparents and the rest of the family, as we usually did on weekends.

I was wearing a red shirt with denim jeans, and I remember excitedly announcing to everyone: “Guess what? I just got my period!”

Even now, I don’t quite understand what was going through my mind then.

But what I do remember is that my first period was not painful at all.

My main feeling was curiosity and a sense of novelty.

Later, though, the nightmare began.

Every first day of my cycle, I couldn’t even go to school. I could barely walk. Any smell made me nauseous. My whole body was weak, and the pain was relentless.

My parents took me to gynecologists, to traditional Chinese doctors, none of it helped. My father was especially anxious, constantly reminding me:

“Even in summer you must wear socks!”

“No more spicy food, not even a little bit!”

“Look at your tongue coating, it means your spleen and stomach are weak. You can’t drink cold milk or eat ice cream anymore!”

But fresh milk in Xinjiang was impossible to resist.

On the street, we would buy it fresh, one kilo for 5 RMB. After boiling and cooling, it would form a thick layer of cream on top. I loved putting it in the fridge and drinking it cold, with that creamy layer like soft cheese on top of the rich milk. The sweetness, the freshness, the richness, it was indescribable.

Sometimes, during my period, my mother would even take time off work to drive an hour to another town, just because there was a restaurant there that served pigeon soup. It was the only thing I could eat during those days. Traditional medicine said pigeon meat was warming, and since my cramps were linked to “cold in the womb,” it was considered nourishing.

In high school, I moved alone to Beijing to study at a boarding school. My cramps were still bad.

I remember once, during my period, I hadn’t eaten for two days, cuz I felt nausea. Weak and sweaty, I decided to take a shower in the communal bathhouse. The steam, combined with the emptiness of my stomach and the bleeding, left me completely drained. As I tried to get dressed, I turned to the girl beside me, and said, “Mary, I can’t do this anymore.” 

The next moment, everything went black.

When I opened my eyes, I was surrounded by girls calling my name. They were my classmates, but for a moment, I couldn’t even recognize them. Slowly, my awareness returned. They helped me standing up, wrapped me in towels, and accompanied me back to my dormitory. Later, many girls came to my dorm with gifts: brown sugar (which was always my nightmare, because my mom forced me to drink it whenever I had my period, so for me, brown sugar = period cramps), red date porridge, biscuits, candies, and painkillers.

Menstrual pain haunted my youth: soaking through clothes and bedsheets, waves of nausea, tears of desperation.

I don’t know why, but until after I turned twenty, I never took painkillers. People always told me they were bad, and I believed them. That was just a myth.

I started since I was 19, one or two pills would usually carry me through the first two, most painful days.

In the UK, my GP at the NHS prescribed me the progestogen-only pill. It’s a type of birth control pill containing only progestogen. By steadily releasing the hormone, it suppresses ovulation, thins the uterine lining, and reduces bleeding, sometimes stopping periods altogether. For cramps, it works by easing uterine contractions.

After that, my periods mostly disappeared. I wasn’t taking it purely for contraception; I always made sure the guys used condoms unless I was with a long-term partner and we had both gotten medical tests. I took it more because I wanted to “escape” my period.

Then in 2024, I decided to stop the pill.

One morning I woke up and realized I wanted to meet my body again, without the veil of medication. I wanted to feel my cycle and understand what my body was like, unaltered.

Now, when I sense my period coming, I prepare a gentle space for myself. I burn white sage at home, then go to the market to choose fresh beef, a bundle of green spinach, ripe avocados, and a flaky, fragrant chocolate croissant. Back home, I let a pot of beef soup simmer until the whole house is warm with its aroma. The heater is on, my feet tucked into soft socks, a blanket spread on the couch. A romantic comedy is ready to play. I wait for her arrival with care.

In my youth, my period always came with fear and helplessness. But in recent years, I’ve learned to face her with welcome and with love. Each time she arrives, I whisper to myself: “You’ arrived? Don’t worry, I’m ready.”

And so, the pain that once cast such a heavy shadow no longer feels unbearable. It has softened into a gentle reminder: to slow down, to take care of myself.

Luckily, when my period returned, it no longer tormented me the way it once did.

This made me feel deeply happy, as if my body had finally found a new way to live with pain, also, the pain wasn't that painful.

During those months, I created many ceramic pieces themed around menstruation, and I also began to seriously listen to the subtle signals of my body. These sensations were no longer limited to my period but extended into more everyday conversations.

“What do you want to eat today?”

I would close my eyes and patiently wait for my body’s reply. She said: a fresh Vietnamese summer roll, followed by a ripe peach for dessert.

“What do you want right now?”

The answer was: a big bowl of steaming oatmeal, with melting 80% dark chocolate, a sprinkle of sea salt, and a touch of grated orange peel.

“What kind of nourishment do you long for today?”

She spoke clearly: a pot of warm, hearty borscht.

These conversations created an intimate understanding between me and my body. She was no longer just something to be tamed, but someone I could communicate with, care for, and even rely on, like a girl of her own.

I realized that I used to treat my body’s pain as an enemy, something to escape from, suppress, and fight against. Later, I began to accept her, to understand her, to see her. And she turned out not to be so frightening after all. That was when I truly started to build a trusting and intimate relationship with my body.

For those months, I felt my body was clear and alive, revealing to me the vulnerability and wounds I had long overlooked. Still, my menstrual cycle remained irregular, sometimes delayed by two weeks, sometimes arriving two weeks early. And when I began taking the medication again, I gained 8 kilos, and my emotions became wildly unstable, swinging from irritability to sadness, anxiety to emptiness. It was as if my body, which I had spent months learning to listen to and care for, suddenly became unpredictable and foreign. That sense of losing control, of not fully inhabiting my own body, filled me with frustration and fear. I realized how delicate the balance was between nurturing myself and trying to manage it all, between trusting my body and trying to override its signals. In those moments, I understood that pain, unpredictability, and discomfort were not just physical, they seeped into my mind, shaping my moods, my patience, and my sense of safety. And yet, despite all this, I still had to navigate it, still had to find ways to coexist with my body and its moods.

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So, this decision about getting an IUD was, in a way, me finally realizing that my relationship with my period needed a “coordinator.”

Back in Buenos Aires, I was still scared.

Later, after being with Beans, we continued researching together. We decided to stay in a developed and convenient city for a while, so I could have enough rest. Originally, we planned to go to São Paulo, he had already arranged a nice private hospital there, and the doctors spoke fluent English.

However, my visa didn’t get approved.

I said, “Then let’s go to Mexico. It’s a place I love, where I’ve lived before, where I feel at ease, and I also have friends there.”

Beans agreed.

Later, my friend Lau gave me her gynecologist’s contact. I spoke with several doctors, and eventually chose this one, scheduling our in-person consultation.

There’s something I have to say: in the process of reaching out to gynecologists, Beans and I spoke with many doctors. Some male doctors’ responses left me speechless. They casually said things like, “It won’t be that painful,” or “You don’t need anesthesia, it’s just a small procedure.” The tone carried this condescending indifference, as if women’s bodies and their pain were trivial details to be dismissed.

Fuck them!

This so-called “professionalism” made me feel completely unseen. They had never experienced the cramping inside a uterus, yet they spoke with such certainty. Even though many doctors, of any gender, can be professional, kind, and gentle, those gynecologists who speak from above, relying solely on their medical knowledge, they still cannot escape the influence of a patriarchal framework.

The ones who told me “IUD is no biggie” were missing the most basic thing: empathy.

They looked confident, but to me it was just ignorant arrogance, a textbook example of emotional incapacity.

I was very fortunate that throughout the process, my friend Dani accompanied me remotely. She sent me several ten-minute voice messages, patiently and thoroughly explaining what to prepare, what to watch for afterward, and all the little details. Her voice made me feel incredibly safe.

She also reminded me: if any doctor says, “It won’t hurt,” that’s absolutely a big red flag.

I’ll leave my blood-and-tears history with my period here.

Now, let me continue with what happened after the IUD procedure.

After the surgery, when I saw that single drop of blood, an intense wave of fear hit me. My stomach cramped, my hands and feet curled up, and an unprecedented panic surged through me. I was in so much pain that I couldn’t even put on a pad or underwear by myself, my hands clenched so tightly I couldn’t open them, my legs cramped and stiff, my feet rigid. My entire body felt locked up.

Beans carefully helped me put on my underwear, holding me and soothing me.

I was covered in cold sweat, my hair sticking to my face, lips drained of color.

I couldn’t even speak. When I finally had enough strength, I asked the doctor, “Can you give me something to calm me? Some medicine to make me sleep immediately?”

The doctor seemed to say that they couldn’t give such medication directly here, but that I could get it from the pharmacy and inject it. I didn’t understand a word of it.

Inside, I was cursing in my heart, “Fucking do something!”

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I knelt on the small stool in the changing room. Curled up, it felt like my uterus was somehow shielded, and the pain eased just a little.

Still, the pain was sharp and relentless, every breath like tiny needles twisting inside me.

I don’t know how much time passed.

Beans helped me pull on my pants, and the doctor checked my blood pressure, it was all normal.

I laid on the procedure table and whispered, “Could you turn off the lights? I just want to lie here for a while.”

They were all gentle, the doctor, the nurse, and my Beans, 3 of them quietly holding space for me in the dark.

Beans kept massaging my legs, which brought a small, real relief. But the next morning, when I woke up, I noticed that my calves were completely swollen, as if the cramps from the panic and tension during the procedure had left their mark.

Even in that tender, caring moment, a deep sense of unfairness lingered: why does a man’s reproductive organ never have to endure this kind of pain?

On the bed, I tried endlessly to find a comfortable position. First I lay on my back, my abdomen stretched and tender. Then I tried kneeling and curling up again, but nausea hit in waves.

Finally, I curled onto my side, trying to settle myself and ride out the pain.

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Then, my body and consciousness began to speak.

I remembered the breathing techniques I learned in Vipassana and started turning inward.

At the same time, I spoke to my uterus: “You’re amazing. I love you. I know it hurts, but it will pass. This decision to place the IUD came after we researched and considered everything carefully. From now on, we won’t have more painful periods, mood swings, or weight fluctuations. Everything will be okay. I’m here. I love you.”

I could feel my uterus crying in its own way.

I wanted to cry too, but I held back.

I don’t know how much time passed.

Perhaps the painkillers were finally starting to work, and I began to feel myself drifting toward sleep.

The pain became bearable, just enough to allow rest.

I whispered to Beans that he could go take care of the payment, prescriptions, or arranging our ride back to hotel. He went to coordinate with the doctor while the nurse quietly stayed with me. Even in silence, having another woman present brought me a sense of safety.

Later, when I tried to sit up, she helped me and softly said, “It hurts, doesn’t it? I understand. When I had my IUD placed, it was very painful too. It will pass.”

I almost cried again.

I wondered: had I ever truly felt this kind of pain?

Teenage period cramps might compare, but I hadn’t experienced such anguish for eight years.

Earlier this year, while cooking, I cut my finger, a pain of flesh and skin.

Bikini sugar was painful, too, but not even on the same level.

Perhaps the most intense pain I’d ever experienced was as a child, during a surgery without anesthesia.

I was often sick as a child, especially with sinus infections. Fevers, headaches, and clogged sinuses left me weak and breathless, always a “sickly” little girl.

One time, a doctor recommended a sinus puncture, a common procedure: a needle would pierce the thin bone of my sinus to drain pus, then rinse with saline to clean and restore the mucosa.

But that day became one of my earliest and most vivid memories of pain. After discussing with my mother, the doctor decided not to use anesthesia.

I remember him saying, “Let your mother take you to eat something you love for lunch. After the surgery, you won’t be able to eat.”

But she didn’t take me to lunch that day.

My father was often away for work, as he had been since my birth. He wasn’t there that day either. My mother seemed particularly angry, as if everything fell on her alone.

She didn’t accompany or comfort me. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong; I just stayed quiet. And I was staving, I was sent into the operating room. I clearly remember pushing open the door, my last thought flashing through my mind: “Why is my mom angry again? Did I do something wrong?”

When the procedure began, the needle pierced the bone of my nasal cavity. I even heard the crack of bone being penetrated, the sharp, suffocating pain. Then, saline was poured in; at first, it flowed out mixed with blood and pus, and I felt completely helpless.

Years later, during my IUD placement, the sharp, unrelenting pain pulled me back to that childhood memory. The sensation of a cold, invasive needle, the inescapable agony, the helpless fear, I was reliving it fully.

The difference now was that I was no longer a lonely child.

These two experiences: the childhood surgery and the IUD placement, were the most intense pain my body had ever endured in 28 years.

After that day, in the midst of extreme pain and helplessness, I was suddenly pulled fully into my body: my consciousness and my physical self tightly connected.

Each breath, each heartbeat, every cramp in my uterus made me listen to my body as if for the first time, my senses completely awake.

In that moment, I saw parts of myself I had long ignored: fragility, old wounds, hidden fears. How long had it been since I truly acknowledged them, held them, and loved them?

My body seemed to cry out: “Shikin, you finally see me.”

In pain, everything else becomes insignificant.

Past worries, unresolved emotions, all seemed trivial in comparison.

Every breath, every heartbeat reminded me: I am not in control, and there is nowhere to escape.

Pain is everywhere, but I can choose whether to suffer.

And truly, everything will pass.

I realized how long it had been since I had truly looked inward, meditated, or carefully observed my body. Whenever strong emotions arose, I would tense, breathe rapidly, heart racing like it might burst from my chest.

I was terrified.

I wanted to run.

I wanted to hurt others.

I wanted to hurt myself.

I wanted to fly away.

I wanted to reject my anxiety and anger.

I seemed to have completely forgotten how to hold my own pain with love, how to treat myself gently.

I felt a deep sense of nurturance, or perhaps it was motherhood: a tender warmth flowing in my heart, a wish for myself and others to be safe and well, a feeling of compassion, gratitude, and lucky awareness.

A desire to create the best, safest, and most beautiful conditions for myself and others.

This awareness extends not only to others but also gently embraces myself, allowing me to accept my vulnerability and respond to the world with tenderness. Perhaps this is what motherhood is: a selfless, protective, loving embrace, or perhaps it is simply a deep, total love.

I saw Beans beside me, quietly holding me steady. His support wasn’t flashy or dramatic, it simply made me feel safe.

His gentleness was so clear, soothing the trembling fear deep in my heart.

He could be a little clumsy, a little awkward, but in the most endearing, genuine way.

His masculinity wasn’t about how many dumbbells he could lift or how strong he appeared, it was a real, reliable presence, a sense of responsibility, and a willingness to reflect.

His steady gaze and decisive actions made me feel protected;

his presence was reassurance, healing, a harbor where I could let my guard down and fully connect with myself.

I couldn’t imagine him doing any better.

I just wanted to hold him tightly, feeling enveloped by safety, warmth, and love, filled with gratitude.

These past few months, he has truly been my teacher, helping me heal in a space of love, learning how to treat myself, and the world around me, with care.

Intimate relationships always do this: they bring us to our deepest places: joy, love, and beauty, but also pain, fear, and uncertainty.

I don’t want to make a summarizing conclusion, but that's it, about my IUD experience.

Also, I’ve started trying yoga.

In my next piece, I’ll write about one of my yoga experiences, and how it helped me reconnect: with my body, with my mind, and with myself.