Can you do self-insemination at home ?
In a shocking revelation during my annual check-up, my OB/GYN, who has been my go-to for all things lady-related, told me she could literally see my bladder. Yes, you read that right—she could see it.
“What?” I exclaimed, abruptly sitting up. My moment of peace had swiftly morphed into a harsh reminder that my forties were looming. (Okay, I’ve already passed that milestone, but let’s pretend I’m still in my thirties for the sake of this narrative. Maybe in the next article, I’ll even be in my twenties!)
“Definitely stage 2 prolapse,” she confirmed. “Want to take a look?”
“Absolutely not,” I replied. Why would I want to witness the evidence of my body’s decline? “But what does that mean?”
“Have you noticed any frequent bathroom trips or straining?” she inquired.
“Hmm.” I hadn’t reflected on it much. Sure, I was waking up every night and struggling on long car rides (sometimes even on short ones), but I assumed it was a temporary issue, like the linea nigra that’s still fading on my belly or the thirty pounds of baby weight I was losing at a snail’s pace. “Is this serious?”
“Not great for someone your age. But don’t worry—you can always have it surgically repositioned,” she said.
Wait, what? Repositioned? Wasn’t that the same surgery my mother-in-law had just gone through? How did I end up here so quickly? Sensing my apprehension, she suggested pelvic floor therapy instead.
“It’ll help strengthen the muscles,” she assured me. As she spoke, I felt a familiar urge to pee, but I resisted the impulse. Why confront reality when I could just ignore it?
Parenthood had already taken so much from me—my waistline (okay, maybe it was never that small), my perfectly manicured nails, my ability to wear pants without elastic waistbands, and even my once-perky bosom (which, let’s be honest, was never really that perky). I accepted all of this in exchange for my delightful little ones. But my bladder? Now that felt like too much to bear. I had always taken pride in its capabilities, how it could hold up on transatlantic flights and empty quickly when needed. People often commented on it in public restrooms, saying things like, “Wow, you’re fast!” That was the truth—I’d never lie about my bladder.
Now, it was all slipping away, the first sign of middle age creeping into my life. I wasn’t ready to face this reality. So, after indulging in half a box of Oreos, I signed up for pelvic floor therapy.
Upon entering the clinic, I was greeted by a calming atmosphere. The air was filled with the scent of lavender, and a serene waterfall trickled behind the receptionist’s desk. She spoke softly, handing me forms to fill out at my leisure. The pamphlet promised a journey of exercises to strengthen my pelvic floor muscles and restore my bladder’s proper position—so I could run without worrying about dribbling (and no, I don’t mean a basketball).
After filling out the forms, a petite woman named Ms. T. led me to the therapy room. She walked lightly, as if she were floating in her sneakers, and began chatting as we walked, which made me a bit uneasy.
“So, I’m Ms. T. Are you excited to start?”
“That depends, Ms. T. Depends,” I quipped, trying to lighten the mood with a joke that didn’t land. She asked a few introductory questions about why I was there.
“My doctor diagnosed me with a prolapse,” I confessed.
“Are you experiencing incontinence?” she asked.
“Like my grandma?” I replied, feeling the term sounded shameful, as if I had done something wrong. Perhaps the third child had been the last straw for my bladder.
“It’s okay to admit it,” she encouraged.
I do wake up frequently at night, and yes, I often find myself rushing to the bathroom. But admitting it felt too private, too embarrassing.
“Let me explain what pelvic floor therapy is. We aim to strengthen the muscles that support your bladder,” she said, pulling out a rubber chicken. “Over time, and especially after childbirth, these muscles weaken, and gravity takes its toll.” She squeezed the chicken until a little pouch appeared at the bottom. “This is what’s happening to your bladder.”
Then she instructed me to lie on the table and demonstrate some exercises. “Tilt your pelvis and squeeze those muscles. Inhale, lift your pelvis, hold for five seconds, and then release.”
“Got it,” I lied.
“Tilt, inhale, lift, squeeze, exhale, release,” she repeated while I tried to follow along. I was already sweating; this was no spa day.
“Now, picture your vagina as a straw trying to suck up a milkshake,” she said, resting her tiny hand on my arm.
I’ve imagined my vagina in many ways, but never as a straw. I tried to suck as hard as I could, but the pressure was overwhelming. “Are you sucking hard enough?” she asked. My pelvic floor was having its own crisis. I felt a wave of sadness wash over me. Should I really be doing this?
After the session, I called my husband for a little encouragement. “The takeaway here is to never have kids,” he remarked. “How serious can this really be? You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” I guess I shouldn’t have expected support from him—his bladder is still in its rightful place. But this was a big issue for me. I’m 29—uh, 40 years old—and I wake up at least once, sometimes twice a night, needing to pee. Running is now limited to laps around my cul-de-sac because ten minutes into it, I always have to stop and find a bathroom. 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, shoulders back and proud. “Can I hang up now?” he replied, unimpressed. “Whatever,” I sighed, treating myself to the other half of the Oreos while reminding myself: “Tilt, inhale, raise, squeeze, release, exhale.” Though I’ve had to switch my cravings from milkshakes to ice cream cones.
For more insights on this journey and related topics, check out this article, as well as this authoritative source. If you’re looking for further information on pregnancy and home insemination, this resource is excellent.
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In summary, the realities of aging and motherhood can be daunting, especially when they affect our health in unexpected ways. This narrative captures the struggle of facing uncomfortable truths about our bodies, the importance of seeking help, and the commitment to restoring what has been lost—humor and all.