"My first gynecologist, also a Catholic, was recommended to me by my mother-in-law, who worked at the same hospital. Like my husband, he also rebuked my desire to prevent pregnancy. One year into my marriage, I asked him for an IUD. The next, an implant. After each request, he demurred: "You're healthy, and doing so well with natural family planning," he said in rebuffing me, referring to the method I'd been using to prevent pregnancy."
"Each morning, I took my temperature and charted it next to my other observations; a sharp uptick in temperature meant I was nearing my follicular phase, and the risk of pregnancy was high. To verify that evidence, I would use my fingers to explore the texture, position, and fluids emanating from my cervix, to predict whether ovulation was imminent enough for my husband and I to need to abstain from sex."
"In 2018, I miscarried in our bathroom. The cramps roared through me in a way they never had before, and I passed thick, brown blood and membranous tissue into the toilet. "It's just a period, though, right?" My husband had asked - almost begged. "If you're miscarrying, then we need to collect it and bury the baby. I'll call the priest." "Don't, don't," I wept, hunched over my knees, naked,"
Decided to become infertile during the summer of 2020 while facing a collapsing marriage and a raging virus. The husband, a fervent Catholic and high school sweetheart, had long opposed contraception, and his sudden ambivalence went unquestioned. A Catholic gynecologist repeatedly rebuked requests for an IUD and an implant, citing success with natural family planning. Daily temperature charting and cervical checks guided avoidance of pregnancy and seemed effective for about two years. In 2018 a miscarriage occurred at home, prompting the husband to urge burial and a priest, while she resisted and wept.
Read at HuffPost
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