Let’s get straight to the point: my pelvic health is a disaster. My intimate area feels like it’s seen better days. What used to be a well-maintained space now resembles a dilapidated alley. Imagine the iconic scene from Money Pit where Tom Hanks and Shelley Long peer through a gaping hole in the floor — that’s how I feel about my pelvic floor. And yes, I realize that’s a bit of an outdated reference, but you can always look it up online.
I thought I was off the hook when I delivered my daughter via C-section. You’d think that the “easy” route would spare me any pelvic trauma. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. I was left swollen and sore, as if major abdominal surgery and invasiveness had taken place. Once I managed to sneeze and use the restroom without crying, I found myself dealing with unexpected leaks when I sneezed, raising questions about the state of my pelvic floor.
Fast forward three years to the birth of my son, which was a completely different story. This time, I attempted a vaginal birth. Let’s just say my body didn’t quite hold up under the pressure. After pushing for what felt like an eternity, it seemed like everything was coming out except for the baby. With a little medical intervention and some cutting, my son finally made his dramatic entrance, leaving a chaotic scene that even the nurses commented on.
After the birth, during my first shower, I realized my body felt like an old quilt — stretched, cut, and stitched back together. And to my shock, I discovered a balloon-like object trying to make its way out through my vagina. Concerned, but also aware that my healing process meant no vaginal activity for at least six weeks, I decided to ignore it.
When the time came for an examination, I stood in a room, minimally dressed, while my OB assessed the situation. The diagnosis? A prolapsed bladder. Yes, you read that right — my bladder is falling out of my vagina. It sounds worse than it is; it can be uncomfortable, but it doesn’t interfere with intimacy, so I’m managing.
Believe it or not, having a prolapsed bladder has its perks. For instance, I find leggings to be an essential part of my wardrobe. When someone insists that “leggings aren’t pants,” I can smugly respond, “They are if you have a prolapsed bladder!” The pressure from real waistbands can be unbearable. I don’t want my pelvic contents squished down and risking an emergency dash to the restroom. So leggings it is.
As a mother, I love my kids dearly, but I sometimes need space. My two-year-old loves to climb on me, and my five-year-old follows suit. Instead of navigating a game of human Tetris filled with elbows and knees, I occasionally have to say, “Mommy has a boo-boo right now!” This isn’t a lie; my pelvic floor can only take so much.
I keep a guilt trip card handy for family moments like photo sessions. Picture this: after hours spent coordinating outfits, if someone throws a fit about their attire, I can pull out my card and remind them, “My bladder has been out of place for years. I’ve peed my pants in public for you! Now smile for the camera!”
Navigating life with a prolapsed bladder keeps things interesting. I’m learning how to use a menstrual cup effectively and have become an expert at sneaking off to change my underwear. I look forward to the day when a skilled surgeon can help, but until then, it’s all about Kegeling.
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In summary, living with a prolapsed bladder may be daunting, but it’s manageable. I’m learning to navigate my daily life with humor and resilience while awaiting the day I can fully repair my pelvic health.