Foreign Object in Vagina (But It Was Meant To Be There!)

In 2015, I developed a lung infection. I hacked and wheezed for weeks as bacterial pneumonia and fungal cocci colonized both lungs. Intent on recovering, I ditched GMO-laded produce and cleaning agents with ingredients I couldn’t pronounce. In going au naturel, I also decided to switch from bleached cotton tampons to something that wouldn’t leach poison into my body.

I did my research and decided to try the Diva Cup, a squishy silicone tulip that your fold up and then shove into your nether regions. I reluctantly spent $30 dollars on the intimidating little device that could not possibly fit where it was meant to.

When the weekend rolled around, I practiced insertion. I tried and then took breaks. It just wasn’t happening. Until, finally, the little bloom burst to life in my vaginal canal. Nice!

The instructions told me to remove the device after 12 hours. The next morning, I grabbed the little stem and tugged. Nothing. I inched my fingers up to pinch the cup, but it wouldn’t budge.

I frantically searched the internet for help. The damn thing was stuck! What if I couldn’t get it out? What if I developed an infection? By the time my gynecologist’s office opened on Monday, I would have had a cup of blood sitting inside of me body for over 40 hours. Was I going to die?

I called in my boyfriend to help. He tugged, pinched, and then shrugged.

I read somewhere that I could sanitize a stainless steel spoon in boiling water and then, after cooling, use it to loosen the seal and pry the damn thing out. So, I shoved a spoon where it shouldn’t have been. I had my boyfriend do the same. Nothing happened. I was almost certainly going to die.

The panic intensified as I kept scouring the internet for help. My boyfriend was insistent that I would be fine until Monday, at which time I could make an same-day appointment with my gynecologist. No, no, no, no, no! I couldn’t wait that long.

After several hours spent trying to distract me, as my anxiety skyrocketed, my boyfriend huffed and asked if I wanted to go to the emergency room. I weighted whether the shame or fear was greater for just a moment before releasing an exasperated sigh. Yep. Uh huh. Yes siree! Let’s skedaddle.

When I explained the situation to the hospital intake staff, they didn’t know what a menstrual cup was. So my chart read: foreign object in vagina. Well, fuck. I guess that’s how it’s gonna be. I really wish that had at least noted that it wasn’t a can of hairspray, a broom handle, or a bunch of lemons. Instead, I’m viewed as one of those people. UGH.

The first doctor took a look. With blue latex and forceps, he tugged at the silicone stem. Another doctor came in, and then another, and then a fourth. They took turns trying to rip out the device that was supposed to make me feel like a happy hippy gal. Instead, I felt like an unloved lab rat.

Pried open and uncomfortable, I focused on my breathing. My boyfriend held my hand and made jokes about giving birth. “Just push, babe!” I wasn’t sure whether to kill him or thank him for lightening the mood.

After what felt like an eternity, I heard a pop. The suction had released. A dozen pieces of bloody silicone lay strewn across the forceps tray. $30 down the drain, plus another $300 for the hospital visit.

I laughed with relief as I sat up and thanked the medical team.

The first doctor looked at me, furrowed his brow, and said, “You really ought to be careful what you stick up there.” As if he had just extracted a light bulb, football or tub of cookie dough.

Shame, relief, and exasperation washed over me all at once. “It was meant to be there, doofus!”, I wanted to exclaim. But, of course, I didn’t.

But I also didn’t buy myself another menstrual cup after that traumatic experience. One “foreign object in vagina” in my medical records is more than enough for me!