Tubal Ligation was My Solution. Too Many People are Being Denied Their Own.
About two weeks after my surgery, I found myself back in the hospital for my first, and thankfully only, post-op appointment.
Pretty perfunctory. The healing process was going well. I expected that all was fine and I would be free to resume my normal activities.
Sure enough, the doctor checked the scars in my belly button and along the bottom of my abdomen — right above my C-section scar — asked some questions, and then told me what I hoped to hear.
“You’re good to go. You can do everything again,” he said. Then, tacked on jokingly, “Except get pregnant.”
I laughed appreciatively. But on the inside, I was choking up, completely overcome with a sweetly comforting emotion that caught me a bit off guard.
It’s hard to put into words the sense of relief that flooded through me, uprooting and cleansing away deep-rooted vulnerabilities and fears, some of which I wasn’t even aware I possessed.
It wasn’t exactly new. I’d felt relieved reading through the pre-surgery literature provided by the hospital that included precautionary language along the lines of, “If you do this, you will almost certainly never get pregnant again” — even with an attempted reversal surgery.
I’d also felt relieved as soon as my operation was over, and I shared it with my friend, who’d driven nearly two hours to take me home and stay with me through the gnarling twists of abdominal pain that accompanied me from the hospital and lingered through the afternoon and evening.
But it hit different hearing it stated out loud: I would not get pregnant. Never again. And I got to process anew what those words truly mean for me. Lifetime freedom.
A massive weight was lifted. And with the relief came joy. For a while, I even thought about having a party — a “no-baby shower.” The event would feature wine and soft cheese and sushi galore. We could play games. And dance, because I love dancing. And celebrate the fact that I would NEVER. GET. PREGNANT. Even now, that reality, my reality, is so beautiful it makes me want to cry.
But let’s be real. This exuberance was a contrast to the emotions originally sparked when I decided to gift myself a tubal ligation surgery for my 31st birthday back in 2022.
At first, I felt a bit self-conscious bringing it up — sort of like women have been conditioned to feel self-conscious discussing menstruation for centuries. I’m having “a surgery,” I would mutter. And that was only in circumstances where I felt compelled or required to say anything at all.
Maybe it’s because this particular surgery is riddled with rather intimate implications about sexual intercourse and genitals and sexual orientation and the multiplicity of layers embedded in the entire procreation process. For example, by saying you need the surgery in the first place, you’re inadvertently admitting that you’re having sex. And as a single unmarried woman, especially one who already had a child “out of wedlock,” that still carries certain connotations in modern-day America. Even in the 21st century. And I’m the product of a conservative Christian upbringing, so that adds extra layers I don’t have space to unpack here.
The main takeaway is that having a baby is tinged with those exact same implications, and yet, no one bats an eye when someone announces a pregnancy. In fact, we’re all expected to celebrate and be excited for them. Even though we’re technically congratulating them for an outcome that is almost always preceded by sexual intercourse, so we’re technically saying, “Congratulations on banging.”
Additionally, I wanted to hide it so I wouldn’t have to endure questions and comments along the lines of “why?” or “what if you change your mind?” or “just wait until you meet the ‘right’ person.”
The reality is that not having any more children is as good for me as having children is for other people. I want to celebrate that and be excited about it. About the future I’ve secured for myself.
Because birthing and raising a child is unbelievably hard — as I learned with my first child. It did — and continues to — take an unyielding toll on my body, my finances, my sense of self, and, perhaps most importantly, my mental health. I love my daughter wholeheartedly, and I’m already fighting, tooth and nail, to financially and emotionally provide her with the life she deserves, which requires all the time and attention I have to give. I refuse to sign up, again, for the mental struggle that comes with the never-ending sensation of failing another human being that you chose to bring into the world. Not to mention the threat of climate change and dwindling natural resources that we’re already leaving behind for the next generation. Each of these alone is a sufficient reason for me to not want a child. Put them together, and the idea of procreating is laughably foolish.
Now let’s address the elephant in the room.
It might sound a little strange that I felt tubal ligation was necessary, considering I’m pansexual. And for a while, when I was seeing a woman, I wondered if it was necessary at all. But pre-surgery, the mere thought that getting pregnant remained a possibility, no matter how miniscule, perpetually filled me with unshakable dread and anxiety. I hated that sense of helplessness, fear and misery.
And it finally clicked.
Sure, there are several variables. I could end up in a relationship with a woman or a person who can’t reproduce — for whatever reason — and then it would be a moot point. I could be with someone who is willing to get a vasectomy. I could have heterosexual sex and, by chance, not get pregnant again. These are all potential solutions. The problem is that they are solutions that are beyond my control.
By getting sterilized, I took complete control over my reproductive future. I got to decide, for myself — without relying on future partners and their own choices in any way — that I won’t procreate. That is incredibly empowering and liberating.
I no longer have to wrestle with the question: Would I rather die or have another child? Or sit with the private knowledge that if I did get pregnant, I would undoubtedly terminate the pregnancy.
This is my reality, and it stands in contrast to my friends’ circumstances. I have one dear friend who is navigating how to be a long-term, very involved caretaker to her partner’s two children, and another who recently gave birth as a 30-something woman in a financially stable situation who actively made this choice with her husband.
Still other individuals I know and love are coping with infertility or repeated miscarriages. They’re desperately trying to figure out what they can do to procure the parent-child relationship they revere and want to experience in their lifetime. Not to mention those trudging through a complex and costly adoption process.
So many stories. And each as significant as the other.
At the end of the day, we need to be a society that provides love, support and celebration for each one. Just as importantly, we need to strive for a healthcare system that provides access to all people and gives them power and autonomy over their own reproductive health, regardless of gender, race, social class or income.
I recognize how privileged I am to have health insurance and access to a hospital to have sterilization surgery. Not only that, but I have a job that is supportive and makes it easy to take time off for health-related reasons. I have a friend to call, who could make sure I got home safely after the surgery. Not to mention, I have an amicable and copacetic relationship with my child’s father and his partner, so I’m not one of those single parents struggling with homelessness or shouldering the entire cost of food security and childcare for my 8-year-old.
All of that puts me in a privileged situation that is not shared by many other women in our country. And then, to add fuel to the fire, the conservative-leaning U.S. Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade in 2022, making it that much harder for women to experience total reproductive rights in countless states and cities across the country.
And I feel grateful for my situation. But I also feel angry. And, quite frankly, fed up.
Because no one should have to wrestle with the question: Would I rather die or have a child? No one should be burdened with unshakable terror about a particular future that seems inevitably out of their control. No one should be forced into a position where their health and well-being are secondary to the personal beliefs and influence of people in power who get off on legislating through their narrow religious lens that prioritizes abstract ideology over human life.
You shouldn’t have to be affluent to access fertility treatments or schedule a preventative C-section. You shouldn’t have to live in a blue state to get an abortion, whether or not the pregnancy is a product of rape or incest. You shouldn’t need health insurance to get the type of birth control that works for your body and lifestyle, whether it’s temporary or permanent. You shouldn’t need to pay exorbitant amounts of money to adopt a child in need of a family and provide it with the love and stability it deserves.
Reproductive rights are human rights. They enable the section of our collective society that is uniquely positioned to reproduce to make personal and important decisions regarding what happens to their body, their health, and their future. And that individual freedom and capacity makes our country better as a whole.
And I know that politics feel complicated and dirty and even demeaning. It’s certainly a less-than-perfect realm. But unfortunately, it’s the realm where this fight will take place. And let’s not forget for a moment that this fight isn’t happening in a vacuum. We can’t stand up for our right to access birth control or abortion and turn a blind eye toward the hostilities and inhumanities being exacted on our queer loved ones. Particularly those who identify as trans.
We must advocate, relentlessly, for reproductive freedom. We must vote against ballot measures and other legislation that will restrict our right to choose for ourselves, with input from medical professionals, what is best for our health. Or the health of our loved ones. We must vote to put people into office, at every level, who truly value the freedom to choose — and act on it. We must support organizations that provide affordable and accessible reproductive healthcare to all humans, regardless of race, income level, and gender.
And let’s be real. As I admitted earlier, I’m a privileged white woman who spent most of her life in the middle class. I don’t have all the answers, and my experience is not definitive. But there’s a conversation we must have. There’s a fight we must have. And I’m part of both. So are you. In one way or another. Let’s do it together.
