In a shocking twist during my annual check-up, my OB/GYN—my go-to expert for all things feminine—revealed a startling fact: she could actually see my bladder. Yes, see it.
“What?” I exclaimed, snapping upright. My brief moment of calm transformed into a harsh reminder that I was hitting middle age (okay, I’ve already crossed that bridge, but let’s pretend I’m still in my thirties for this piece).
“Definitely stage 2 prolapse,” she confirmed. “Want to take a look?”
“Absolutely not,” I replied. Why on earth would I want to witness the evidence of my body’s decline? “What does this mean?” I inquired further.
“Are you finding yourself rushing to the bathroom often or straining when you go?” she asked.
I paused. Sure, I had noticed that I was waking up at least once each night and couldn’t make it through a long car ride (or sometimes even a short one). But I thought it was just a phase, like the lingering linea negra on my belly or the slow evaporation of the thirty pounds I gained during pregnancy. “Is this serious?” I pressed.
“Well, at your age, it’s not ideal. But don’t fret; there’s always the option of surgical intervention,” she said.
Wait, surgical? Didn’t my mother-in-law just have the same procedure? How had I arrived at this point so quickly? Sensing my shock, she suggested pelvic floor therapy instead.
“It’ll help strengthen the muscles,” she assured me. As she spoke, I felt an urge to pee but ignored it. Why confront reality when I could just pretend it wasn’t happening?
Motherhood had already taken so much from me: my slim waist (which I never really had, but let’s pretend), my manicured nails, the freedom to wear non-elastic pants, and my once-perky breasts (okay, they were never really perky either). I accepted all of it willingly for my adorable children. But my bladder? This felt like too much. I had always appreciated its capabilities—how it could hold up on long flights, how quickly it emptied. Friends had even commented in public restrooms, “Wow, you’re so fast!” That’s the honest truth; I would never exaggerate about my bladder.
Now, it was all falling apart. It was a reality I wasn’t prepared to face. I resolved to reclaim my bladder from the aftermath of three pregnancies, which had been nothing but kind to me over the years. After polishing off half a box of Oreos, I signed up for pelvic floor therapy.
Upon entering the clinic, I was greeted by a serene atmosphere. The air was infused with lavender, and a gentle waterfall trickled behind the receptionist. She spoke softly, handing me forms with a reassuring smile, telling me to take my time. The pamphlet indicated I would embark on a series of exercises to help my pelvic floor muscles regain their strength, allowing me to run without worrying about accidents.
After submitting my forms, a petite woman named Mrs. L. escorted me back. She walked lightly, almost floating in her sneakers, and started chatting, which was a bit unsettling.
“Hi, I’m Mrs. L. Are you excited to get started?” she asked.
“Depends, Mrs. L. Depends,” I quipped, making a joke that she seemed not to understand. She went through some introductory questions, asking what brought me there.
“My doctor said I have a prolapse,” I replied.
“Are you experiencing incontinence?” she probed.
“You mean like my grandma?” I shot back. The term felt almost shameful, as if I had done something wrong. Perhaps the third child had pushed my bladder over the edge.
“It’s okay to admit it,” she encouraged. I do pee myself often and wake multiple times at night, but admitting it felt too personal.
“Let me explain pelvic floor therapy. We’re focusing on strengthening the muscles that support your bladder,” she said, pulling out a rubber chicken. “Over time and after childbirth, these muscles weaken, allowing gravity to pull the bladder down.”
She squeezed the chicken until a small pouch emerged from its bottom. “This is what’s happening to your bladder,” she demonstrated.
I hopped onto the table for some exercises. She instructed me to lie back, knees bent, pelvis tilted. “Tilt your pelvis and squeeze those muscles. Inhale, raise your pelvis. Squeeze for five seconds while exhaling. Release. Lower yourself. Inhale.”
“Got it?” she asked.
“Yes,” I lied.
“Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Exhale. Release. Inhale,” she coached, while I followed along, terrified of mixing up my breaths. Within minutes, I was drenched in sweat. This was not a spa day.
“Now, pretend your vagina is a straw trying to suck up a milkshake. Suck as hard as you can,” she instructed, lightly resting her hand on my arm.
In my life, I’ve imagined my vagina as many things, but never a straw. I tried to suck, but the pressure was intense (and not just from my bladder). “Are you sucking hard enough?” she asked repeatedly. I simply couldn’t do it anymore; my pelvic floor was experiencing performance anxiety. I felt defeated and wanted to give up. Did I even need this therapy?
After leaving, I called my husband for some support. “The lesson here is don’t have kids,” he replied. “How serious can it be that you need therapy? You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
I should have known better than to expect sympathy. After all, his bladder is still in its rightful place. But it was a big deal. At 29—uh, 40—I wake up at least once a night to pee. I can only run around my block because ten minutes into jogging, I always need to stop. I know every gas station within a ten-mile radius of my home.
“I’m incontinent, and it’s affecting my quality of life,” I finally admitted, feeling a sense of pride in my honesty. “Can I hang up now?” he asked, completely unfazed. “Whatever,” I replied, rewarding myself with the other half of the Oreos. I settled back and told myself, “I can do this: Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Release. Exhale.” I’ve had to switch from milkshakes to ice cream cones, though.
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In summary, navigating the changes that come with motherhood can be challenging, especially when it affects something as vital as bladder health. Embracing pelvic floor therapy may just be the first step towards reclaiming control.