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In a shocking revelation, my trusted OB/GYN, my go-to for all things feminine health, informed me during my annual check-up that she could visibly see my bladder. Yes, you read that correctly—she could actually see it.
“What?” I exclaimed, instantly sitting up and shattering the serene calm of my appointment, a stark reminder that life at forty—well, okay, I’ve already crossed that milestone—was bearing down on me. (Let’s just pretend I’m still in my thirties for the sake of this article, shall we?)
“Definitely a stage 2 prolapse,” she confirmed. “Would you like to see it?”
“Absolutely not,” I replied. Why would I want to witness the physical evidence of my body’s decline? “But what does that mean for me?”
“Have you been frequenting the restroom or struggling during bathroom visits?” she inquired.
“Hmm,” I pondered. I had noticed the nightly awakenings and the struggles during car rides, both long and short. I had assumed it was just a phase—like the slow fading of my linea negra or the stubborn remnants of baby weight that seemed to vanish at a snail’s pace. “Is this serious?” I asked.
“At your age, it’s concerning. But don’t fret; you can always opt for surgery to lift it back into place,” she explained.
Wait, what? Surgery? That was the same procedure my 70-year-old mother-in-law had undergone last year. How did I find myself here already? Sensing my reluctance, she recommended pelvic floor therapy instead.
“It’ll help strengthen the muscles,” she assured me. As she spoke, I felt the urge to pee but decided to ignore it. Why confront this reality when I could just pretend it wasn’t happening?
Parenthood had already taken a toll on me: my waistline (which was never tiny, but let’s pretend), my polished nails, my ability to wear anything but elastic waistbands, and my once-perky bosom (which, let’s be honest, were never that perky). I had accepted all those losses in exchange for my wonderful children. But my bladder? This felt like too much. I had always taken pride in it—how well it held up during long flights and how quickly it emptied. Others had even complimented me in public restrooms, saying things like, “Wow, you’re so fast!” That’s a true story; I would never lie about my bladder.
Now, all that was changing. After years of loyal service, my bladder was starting to slip, a clear sign that I was entering middle age. I wasn’t ready for this reality, so I resolved to make amends and restore what my three pregnancies had done to my loyal bladder. After indulging in a half a box of Oreos, I signed up for pelvic floor therapy.
Upon entering the facility, I was greeted by a calming atmosphere—lavender scents wafted through the air, and a soothing waterfall cascaded behind the receptionist. The receptionist spoke softly, handing me forms and assuring me there was no rush to fill them out. The pamphlet promised a journey of exercises designed to train my pelvic floor muscles to support my bladder, allowing me to run without fear of dribbling (and I’m not talking about basketball here).
After submitting my forms, a small woman named Ms. Lee came to get me. She stood at about 5’1” and weighed maybe 100 pounds, seemingly floating in her sneakers. As we walked, she chatted away, which made me slightly uneasy.
“So, I’m Mrs. Lee. Are you excited to get started?” she asked.
“Depends, Mrs. Lee. Depends,” I chuckled awkwardly, but she didn’t catch the humor. She proceeded to ask about my reasons for being there.
“My doctor mentioned a prolapse,” I explained.
“Are you experiencing incontinence?” she probed.
“Like my grandma?” I replied. The term felt shameful, as if I had done something wrong. Perhaps the third child had been a bit too much and really was the final straw for my bladder.
“It’s okay to admit it,” she reassured me.
I do wet myself often and wake up at least once a night. But admitting that felt too personal, too embarrassing.
“Pelvic floor therapy aims to strengthen the muscles that support your bladder,” she explained, pulling out a rubber chicken. “What happens over time, especially after childbirth, is these muscles weaken, and gravity pulls the bladder down. Let me show you.” She squeezed the chicken until a small sack appeared from its bottom. “That’s similar to what’s happening to your bladder.”
She instructed me to hop onto a table and demonstrate some exercises. “Lay flat, knees bent. Now, tilt your pelvis and squeeze those muscles. Inhale, raise your pelvis, squeeze for five seconds while exhaling, and then lower back down.”
“Got it?” she asked.
“Yes,” I lied.
“Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Exhale. Release,” she guided me, while I followed along, terrified of messing up the sequence. Within minutes, I was sweating. This wasn’t a spa day.
“Now, I want you to imagine your vagina is a straw trying to suck up a milkshake. Just suck as hard as you can,” she instructed, placing her tiny hand on my larger arm.
In my lifetime, I’ve imagined my vagina as many things, but never a straw. I tried to suck with all my might, feeling immense pressure (not just from my bladder). “Are you sucking hard enough?” she kept asking, but I simply couldn’t anymore. My pelvic floor was having performance anxiety, and I felt a wave of sadness wash over me. Maybe I didn’t need this after all. Or did I?
After the session, I called my husband for emotional support. “The lesson is always don’t have kids,” he remarked. “How big a deal could this really be that you have to go to therapy for it? You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” It’s puzzling why I expected sympathy; after all, his bladder is still in its rightful place.
But it was a big deal. I’m 29—okay, 40—and I wake up at least once or twice a night to use the bathroom. I can’t run anywhere except my cul-de-sac because after ten minutes, I have to stop and pee. I know every gas station within a ten-mile radius of my home.
“I’m incontinent, and it’s impacting my quality of life,” I finally admitted, sitting up straighter, proud of my honesty. “Can I hang up now?” he asked, unaffected by my confession. “Whatever,” I replied, rewarding myself with the other half of the Oreos and reminding myself that I can do this: “Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Release. Exhale.” However, I have had to swap milkshakes for ice cream cones.
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In summary, this humorous yet touching narrative highlights the unanticipated challenges that come with parenthood, particularly regarding physical changes and health issues. The author’s journey through the struggles of bladder prolapse serves as an honest reflection on the realities many mothers face as they navigate the complexities of life after childbirth.