One and a Half Stars
Before anyone considers buying this uterus, let me share a little story.
Said uterus broke at three o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday. The persistent error messages, better known as cramps, woke me up faster and more viciously than any smoke detector's ever managed. I guess I'm not the first one to wonder why the technological marvel of our age uses cramps instead a push notification, because here's a quote from the company's FAQ: "The body already has an alert system, so your artificial uterus interfaces with your nervous system to alert you using the same methods that a natural organ would."
I cannot articulate just how much my blood pressure rose when I realized that the dull aching interspersed with unpredictable shooting pains was a feature and not a bug.
By three-fifteen I had knocked out all the standard uterine troubleshooting steps: I had forced a soft reboot from my phone, run the automatic troubleshooting program, updated the app, update the device software (which is apparently different from updating the app), and turned the external router off and on again. By three-thirty I gave up, put on a pot of coffee, took a painkiller, and began searching variations of why cramps WHY on the website. Everything pointed to replacement, and no other options. The turnaround times and shipping costs on within-warrantee uterus repair, by the way, are ridiculous.
So I looked elsewhere, to no luck. What I did find were advice columns for post-implantation cramps, snippets of code for fetishists wanting to know how to hack the wetware, and list-articles like ”You Won't Believe What People With Uteruses Had To Put Up With In The Olden Days!”
By five, the coffee was gone and I had re-read the entire user manual for my uterus four times. According to the manual, these error messages (again: excruciating pain) are always supposed to be accompanied by a notification in the app. According to my app, everything was business as usual, although nobody told that to the sluggish, red-hot knife "alerts" being swirled through my internal organs. The only exception to this error policy was supposed to occur when the uterus was in conception mode, being cleaned faster and more regularly until a fertilized egg implants. The muscle contractions that cause cramps are present for those monthly cleanings, unlike annual cleanings, because...why, exactly? They're not medically necessary either way. Who wrote that bit of code, the Pope? Originalsin.exe?
I'm getting off topic. At this point, it had become a matter of principle. I'm decently good with technology. I've got degrees. My generation grew up with this sort of thing. One uterus and some cramps: how hard could it be? I want convenience; I want consistency; I want ease; and more than any of that, I want to not be defeated by a goddamn artificial uterus.
But it's very hard, apparently, judging by the three days of Sisyphean forwarded calls, call-back waits, online chats, and even an in-person doctor's visit. (Expect a strongly worded follow-up from my gynecologist, by the way; she is pissed.) For 72 hours, because someone decided that pain was the most "natural" error message, my abdomen felt like someone had hung weights from my intestines so that every single motion would yank on them. All that, only to be told that it probably just needed a hard restart.
Want to know what a hard restart entails? Somewhere inside my pelvis a patch of plastic interfaces with the wetware, and that plastic has a small recessed button in it. The instrument to press that button is proprietary and the procedure is technically considered troubleshooting rather than medical intervention, so it isn't covered by my insurance--and after all the cease-and-desists sent to doctors who did it anyway, my gynecologist couldn't do it even if she wanted to. Instead, I'm supposed to pay out-of-pocket to wait in a Device Clinic to be seen within a four-hour window so some stranger without a medical degree can stick a special skewer up my hoo-ha.
Well, screw that.
I've done many intimate things with my partner. We've whispered postcoital secrets to each other, brushed our teeth on the toilet while the other showered, shared more bodily functions in each other's presence than anyone really wants to admit exists. We know each other's acne scars and birthmarks, have memorized every unhygienic habit and guilty pleasure, have smelled—well. Everything.
Nothing we have ever done has been as intimate or uncomfortable as when my partner spelunked my vagina with an unbent paperclip duct-taped to an old kabob skewer.
All to push a button that turns my uterus off and then on again.
So designers, when you come out with the flashy next model, here's a word of advice: use those nerves for something else. Anything else. You're smart. I'm sure you can figure out how to do pins-and-needles or (every gynecologist's favorite!) "slight pressure." Better yet, send the error messages to the app. That's what it's for, right?
In short, would not recommend. I give it half a star for uterine function.And one star for the built-in wifi hotspot.
© 2021 Kristen Koopman
About the Author
Kristen Koopman is a graduate student, writer, and nerd. Her interests include blatant escapism, overanalyzing anything and everything, playing with her dog, and enough garlic to kill vampires at twenty paces. She is definitely not two smaller Kristen Koopmans in a trenchcoat.