"A Chosen Permanence" by Brenna Ebner

I step into my gynecologist's office. I didn’t even know they had ones

for consultations. I assumed they only worked in rooms with complicated recliners

that had weird parchment paper strewn across it. 

Are you sure? What if you change your mind?

I’m one of the first patients of the day. They do a pregnancy test again and the

 nurse and I laugh at what a surprise it would be to see a positive result right now. 

We’re going to ask a hundred times but because we have to—tell me again what

 surgery you’re getting today?

I’m afraid of confrontation. I twist my rings around my fingers. I sit on the edge

of the chair leaning forward. I thought I was going to throw up waiting in the

hallway. I have white coat syndrome.

Why doesn’t Brock get a vasectomy?

I look like my dad with my IV in my hand and a hair cap on. I try to keep talking

 to Brock so he doesn’t feel awkward and uncomfortable but he doesn’t anyway. I

 forget other people see hospitals differently than I do.

And what procedure are you in for today?

I explain how much cancer there is in my family, that our DNA is littered with

faults and dangers, and my gynecologist refers me to a genealogist to see if I

could have kids that won’t get cancer. The genealogist tells me it was just really

bad luck for both my parents. 

But have you considered how expensive it is to do IVF if you do want kids later?

My whole team is made up of women. It’s comforting to me. In fact I only see

one man working there walk the hallway past my little curtained-off room. 

Both of the fallopian tubes, right?

I’ve been planning to do this since I was 13 but there’s no way my gynecologist

knows this. She prioritizes stopping the migraines and trying a different pill

because I won’t do the arm insert and she says the copper IUD won’t fit in my

uterus. 

What if you and Brock break up and you meet a new partner who wants kids?

I get compliments on my tattoos and piercings. I tell another nurse I like the color

 of her nails. We talk about our moms and how they inspired our styles. I can’t

 stop saying thank you after each of their tasks.

And what procedure are you having done this morning?

I lie to her and say if I change my mind I’d be willing to adopt instead. The

openness to adoption isn’t the lie part, the changing my mind and wanting kids is. 

You’re sure you don’t want to try another pill?

I’ve signed papers, initialed, and handed over my credit card, and consented to

 whatever. Each form they hand me I sign. Saying “no” is not an option to me. I

 will not haggle the price or read the fine print. This costs nothing in comparison.

And what are we doing for you today?

For some reason she takes me seriously the second time I come in. Maybe it’s

because I used the word “sterile” but the moment I use her words from the

doctor’s notes of my previous visit, her attitude seems to change, to take me more seriously. I like to believe it was always going to change though. 

You do know this is permanent, right?

I’m told my medical record is boring, I’m so healthy. I swat the odd compliment

 away and feign blushing as I thank another nurse. Years of sheltering myself have preserved me for this drastic bodily change. This is one of the few times I am

 taking the path of least resistance. I think about how I will need to remember to

 disclose this on medical paperwork moving forward. 

And we’re removing your fallopian tubes, correct?

She’s pulling out the paperwork—which is just one sheet with only a third of a

page of text—before I have even said goodbye to her. Now I imagine her

pushback was more out of duty than of personal opinion. She says they were

booking for May last she checked, which is about four months away. I say that’s

fine. Any plans I may have that day will be moved. 

30% of women regret the decision later.

My gynecologist finds me before the procedure to explain the details. She looks

 more tired than usual. Speaks slower than I am used to from her. I wonder how

 early she got up this morning, if it was as early as me, probably earlier. 

Ready to have your fallopian tubes removed?

Everyone asks me how the procedure went and I answer “good” because I don’t know

otherwise—I was unconscious for it. There’s pain in my shoulders from the added air being

reabsorbed by my body. It takes a nurse, a doctor, and my mom to reassure me I will certainly

not get pregnant now. 

If you know anyone else who needs this procedure, feel free to send them my way.

Brenna Ebner (she/her) is an editor first and writer second. She is a book publicist for The Lit Publicity and a recent graduate of Portland State University with a Master’s in Book Publishing. She can be found in Baltimore, MD with her two dogs or at her website brennaebner.com