30

Still lying on the birthing table of my third child, the midwife asked, “What are your family planning preferences?”

I said, “I’m done. Tie the tubes up.”

I didn’t really want to have my fallopian tubes seared shut; that sounded painful and gross. During the pregnancy I asked my husband to consider having a vasectomy. He said, “You know I would, but I just can’t. I can’t imagine someone taking a scalpel to my penis.”

I looked at him over my mountainous belly. I had to come up with another solution.

Time Magazine had a story about a new procedure that didn’t involve searing. So when the midwife wanted to write up what was next, I was ready.

“No more pregnancies,” I said. “Three’s enough.”

“Oh, we can’t let you decide that today. You have to wait six months to make sure that that’s really what you want.”

“No, I’m sure.”

“No, you’re sure today, but you won’t feel the same way tomorrow.”

“Yes, I will. I’m done.”

The midwife decided to drop the argument and scheduled a visit to an OB/GYN. I chose a doctor at Lankenau Hospital because they did the brand new procedure called a silicon plug. The idea was to shoot a silicon cork into the fallopian tubes with a little hook on the end so that a) the process was reversible, and b) there was no searing of any tubes.

I sat in the waiting room of the doctor’s office and noticed a large oil painting of a nude on the wall. I recognized it; it was a painting of me. Ten years ago I had earned money during college as a model for the art majors, and this painting was the oeuvre of the doctor’s daughter. I checked out the waiting room to see whether anyone else noticed a similarity. No one noticed.

The doctor was one of the first in the nation to do this plug procedure and he demonstrated it to visiting doctors. I lay on the table, my feet in stirrups, my knees wide, and watched as two visiting docs studied my crotch. Only they were more interested in each other and kept whispering and giggling and eyeing each other. I checked out the office to see whether anyone noticed me on the other end of the table. No one noticed.

The plugs became medical history, and then around 10 years later the scandal around silicon breast implants exploded along with the implants. I told my doc I wanted the plugs out. He agreed it was a good idea. I went back to Lankenau. The history-making doctor was still there, and so was my painting. I sat under the painting and looked around to see whether I might be making art history, but I was not. The doc popped the plugs out. With a blow-torch he seared those tubes; you could smell the rubber burning.

That last sentence is an exaggeration. I wanted to see whether anyone noticed.