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Milena

When Milena saw the TV commercial for Mirena, an intrauterine contraceptive offering up to five years of pregnancy-thwarting hormone-delivery directly into her uterus, she thought of her mother’s Japanese-American friend, Mrs. Iwasa, who never could get the hang of Milena’s name, being herself thwarted by the letter L, and was always calling her “Mirena” instead. And no, maybe that wasn’t exactly in the nature of a fortuitous portent, but it was at least a provocative coincidence, and so she decided that, yes—yes, she would go ahead and ask her doctor, as the promotional message strenuously recommended, if Mirena was “right” for her, even though the tiny plastic implement bore a somewhat discomfiting resemblance to a miner’s pickax. A resemblance all the more menacing for its ability to dig into, and sometimes pierce, a woman’s uterine wall, as the commercial lightly, if not liltingly, cautioned.

It also cautioned Milena about back pain, headaches, nausea, irregular bleeding, ovarian cysts (but the good ones that usually disappear), a decrease in libidinous impulse, and the fact that if pregnancy should occur with Mirena in place, it could threaten Milena’s life. The commercial didn’t say anything about having to check the thing’s threads once a month, but no matter; Milena had pretty much stopped listening after hearing the potential blessings: no more having to take that pill (so busy!) and no more baby worries for five sweet years. Just set it and forget it, like her Showtime Rotisserie, and what a godsend that was!

So she asked her doctor to put one in, and he of course was only too happy to oblige, money being money. But Milena’s hear-no-evil indifference to Mirena’s less sanguine attributes made him think she might be as big a nut case as her boyfriend David.

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