So, I have been attempting to write about my wedding experience. It has been unsuccessful thus far because it ends up sounding either cliche, schmaltzy, or just plain boring. The wedding feelings may be too nuanced for a blog and I think I will just retire them to the shrink's office and/or my plain old diary. With that said, I can sum it up like this--phonomenal, surreal, one large dream sequence. And people say that even if you have been with your mate a long time already (which I have), being married feels different. Closer. More of a team. I have definitely noticed that to be true. And I was thankful to have my teammate at my side last night because... my diaphragm got stuck. Um, yeah.
First of all, I would like to acknowledge how much crap I have taken for having a diaphragm in the first place. A couple of choice lines from my wise-ass girlfriends include "What are you, 50?" and "Jesus, that is so 'Ice Storm' of you'". And by the way, I completely agree with them. Diaphragms have a completely 70's connotation for me. The house in which I learned what a diaphragm was had rust colored CARPETED WALLS and giant brown pillows on the floor instead of a couch. The rug was shag and some sort of off-yellow color. I am really not sure what color motif my parents were going for but I think of it as the "depressing bodily fluid" collection. Anyway...one day, when I was about 5, I was exploring my mom's bathroom. I loved playing with her Merle Norman products. Merle Norman was a makeup line which perfectly encapsulated the late 70's and early 80's--thick consistencies, weird colors, and a sort of oily film over everything. My favorite part about Merle was the packaging--all pink. I loved lining the different sized pots and jars up on the sink counter, pulling up a chair, and pretending I was giving an interview from my makeup chair while getting ready for my next performance. This whole ritual became especially fun after the movie "Mommie Dearest" came out because in the famous "No more wire hangers" scene, Joan Crawford is wearing an insane amount of 'cold cream'. I am sure most of us remember our mothers slathering on a layer of this before bed to take their makeup off. My mom had Merle's version which was of course pink and smelled like castor oil. I loved slapping a layer on and channeling Joan. No wonder I have always had such a kinship with gay men.
So, during one of my bathroom playtimes, I stumbled upon a pink container I had never seen before. There was no Merle Norman lettering on the little square box and it was a flimsier material than most MN vessels--sort of a semi-translucent plastic. But it was pink and therefore symbolized some sort of fun product in my young eyes. I opened it and was puzzled. There sat a flesh colored tiny cap sprinkled with baby powder. What the hell? My first thought was that this was in fact a hat for a baby. If I had known what a yarmulke was at that time, it would have been the next logical guess. Was it some sort of new applicator for Merle's loose powder? I needed to know. I grabbed it and took it to my mom in the kitchen. My mom, being a total bohemian, laughed when she saw me holding her diaphragm with a quizzical and semi-pissed look on my face. I felt betrayed that a new product had been purchased and I had no idea about it. And the baby powder? Confusing. She then told me straight up what it was, how it was used, and what it was for. I think a few concepts obviously went way over my head at that time, mainly a) how the hell could a piece of rubber with the circumference of an orange prevent a baby being born and b) why was powder used to keep it dry? Vaginas weren't even wet, right?
OK, so fast forward to me now. I use a diaphragm because I hated the pill. It made me feel what I imagine morning sickness to feel like. I was constantly nauseaus and if anyone so much as even said the word 'chicken', I would dry-heave. This is a real problem when you are someone who is constantly trying to eat well and lose 10 pounds. Chicken is your old stand by even though it is fairly gross. So, I tried a diaphragm and frankly, it is completely fine. Not too spontaneous but no more of a problem than quickly sticking a condom on. Until last night. We were not doing anything unusual. Straight up missionary style. And then all of a sudden, this intense pain, like someone was clenching my entire reproductive system in a tight fist. I tried to be a trooper, I really did. Being that sex really has never hurt me before, I should have known immediately that something was off but I rationalized, figuring maybe it had just been awhile or all those crunches at the gym had made me smaller. WHAT?! But the pain got worse. I "took care" of my husband another way because I had a feeling this was going to be a long night and he might be more equipped to handle whatever was coming in a post-ejaculated state. I ran to the bathroom and did what I always do if there is some sort of pain I do not recognize--whine and cry. It was very archaeic and earthy. I was squatting on the floor like I imagine a Native American woman would do. I reached up for the diaphragm and realized I was not feeling the little ridge where it normally sits. In fact, I could hardly feel the thing at all. More hysterics. "Where is it?" I screamed to my husband. "It disappeared inside of me! Oh, no!" My sweet husband did everything he could at that moment not to completely crack up. There was his nude wife, crouched on the floor, declaring that a piece of rubber had somehow floated from her vagina into her chest. It was time to call the doctor.
Even though I have what seems to be a photographic memory of every phone number I've ever known, my state of panic made me draw a blank on my gyno's number. I told my husband to call information. Here is where I should mention something crucial. My gynocolegist just happens to have the same name as a comedian who had his career peak proabably around the time that diapragms were huge but has recently made a major comeback as the host of a popular prime time gameshow. I could hear my husband say the city and then the name. I then heard him laugh. "Yeah, I know", he said "It's not the same guy." I dialed the number from my crouched position and got the doctor on the phone...thank god. I could hear his kids in the background. The echoey quality of the background noise made me picture a nice big house with a den. In fact, he was probably watching a movie with the wife and kids when he got the call from his service--"It's that crazy Stevens girl. Her diaphragm is stuck." He was incredibly kind. He told me it happens all the time and I would get it out. If by chance I couldn't, he would "meet me somewhere." Being that I live in the Valley and he on the westside, I imagined us meeting at some halfway point and me jumping in the back seat of my car as my husband played lookout. The doctor told me to put one leg on the bathtub and to bend the other knee as I squatted down. This was the sure position. I tried a few times on the phone with him but no success. I cried harder. He told me to stay in that position for a few more minutes and the diaphragm should "slip down a notch." If not, I could call him back. Before we hung up, I said I needed to ask him one more important thing--what if people only have a stall shower? He cracked up and told me he could tell I was feeling better already. I got the fucking diaphragm out a minute later. Maybe I will try a different pill.
