In a shocking twist during my annual check-up, my OB/GYN—who has been my trusted partner in reproductive health—revealed something I never expected to hear: she could see my bladder. Yes, actually see it.
“What?” I exclaimed, sitting up in disbelief. My moment of peace evaporated, replaced by the harsh reality that I was edging closer to middle age. (Okay, I have already crossed that threshold, but let’s pretend I’m still in my thirties for the sake of this narrative.)
“Definitely stage 2 prolapse,” she confirmed. “Would you like to take a look?”
“Absolutely not,” I replied. Why would I want to witness the decline of my lady parts? “But what does that mean?”
“Have you been experiencing frequent bathroom trips or straining?” she inquired.
I paused. Sure, I had been waking up every night for a bathroom run and struggled on long car rides (even the short ones sometimes). But I thought it was a temporary phase, like that stubborn linea negra that’s still hanging around or the baby weight that I’m shedding at a snail’s pace.
“Is this a serious issue?” I asked.
“At your age, it’s not great. But don’t worry—you can always opt for surgery to lift it back into place,” she said.
Wait, surgery? Wasn’t that the same thing my elderly mother-in-law had done recently? How did I end up here so soon? Sensing my uncertainty, she suggested trying pelvic floor therapy instead.
“It’ll help strengthen the muscles,” she assured me. As she spoke, I felt a familiar urge to pee but decided to ignore it. Why confront reality when I could just pretend it wasn’t happening?
Parenthood had already taken a lot from me: my once-svelte waist (okay, I never really had one, but let’s keep the fantasy alive), my manicured nails, the ability to wear non-elastic pants, and even my firm bosom (which, let’s be honest, was never that firm). I had accepted all these losses in exchange for my precious children. But my bladder? That felt like too much to bear.
I used to take pride in it. It functioned beautifully, especially on long flights, and people often complimented my swift bathroom trips. Now, that chapter was closing. It was the first sign of me entering the realm of middle age, and I wasn’t ready to accept it. Determined to make things right for my bladder, which had been a loyal friend, I signed up for pelvic floor therapy after indulging in half a box of Oreos.
Upon arriving at the therapy center, I was greeted by a calming atmosphere—a soothing scent of lavender wafted through the air, and a gentle waterfall flowed behind the receptionist. She spoke softly, encouraging me to take my time with the forms.
The pamphlet hinted at a journey of exercises designed to strengthen my pelvic floor muscles and help me regain control.
After completing the paperwork, a petite woman named Mrs. Greene greeted me. She seemed to float in her shoes and chatted cheerfully, which made me uneasy.
“So, are you excited to begin?” she asked.
“Depends, Mrs. Greene. Depends,” was my attempt at humor, but she didn’t catch on. As we walked, she asked about my reason for being there.
“My doctor diagnosed me with a prolapse,” I explained.
“Are you experiencing incontinence?” she replied.
“Like my grandma?” I shot back, feeling embarrassed. The term felt derogatory, as if I had done something wrong. Perhaps my third child had pushed my bladder over the edge.
“It’s okay to admit it,” she reassured me.
In reality, I did have frequent accidents and woke up multiple times at night, but admitting it felt too personal.
Mrs. Greene proceeded to explain the therapy, pulling out a rubber chicken to illustrate her point. “Over time and after childbirth, these muscles weaken, and gravity pulls the bladder down,” she explained, squeezing the toy until something popped out.
She instructed me to lie on a table and demonstrated some exercises. “Tilt your pelvis and engage those muscles. Inhale, raise your pelvis, squeeze for five seconds, exhale, and lower,” she directed.
“Got it?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Exhale. Release,” she guided me through the motions, and I was soon sweating. This wasn’t a spa day.
“Now, pretend your vagina is a straw trying to suck up a milkshake,” she instructed.
Never had I imagined my vagina as a straw. I tried my best, but I felt immense pressure—not just from my bladder.
“Are you sucking hard enough?” she asked repeatedly, but I couldn’t muster any more strength. My pelvic floor was struggling to perform, and a wave of sadness washed over me. I wanted to give up. Did I really need this?
After the session, I called my husband for encouragement. “The lesson here is to avoid having kids,” he said. “Is it really that big of a deal to go to therapy for this? You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” I wasn’t sure why I expected sympathy; he still had a well-placed bladder and couldn’t relate to my plight. But it was a big deal. I’m 29—uh, 40—and I wake up at least once, sometimes twice, a night to pee. Running is a challenge since I have to stop after ten minutes to find a restroom. I know every gas station within ten miles of my home.
“I’m incontinent, and it’s impacting my quality of life,” I finally admitted, standing a little taller.
“Can I hang up now?” he asked, seemingly unfazed.
“Whatever,” I replied, rewarding myself with the other half of the Oreos. I took a deep breath and reassured myself: “Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Release. Exhale.” Though I’ve had to switch from milkshakes to ice cream cones, I know I can handle this.
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- Signs of bladder prolapse
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- Incontinence solutions after childbirth
- How to strengthen pelvic floor muscles
- Home remedies for bladder control
Summary:
This personal narrative explores the unexpected challenges of motherhood, particularly regarding bladder health and the impact of pelvic floor therapy. The author candidly shares her experiences and feelings about the changes that come with pregnancy and childbirth, ultimately emphasizing the importance of addressing these issues for a better quality of life.