In a shocking revelation during my annual check-up, my OB/GYN—my go-to expert for all things down there—told me something I never expected to hear: she could see my bladder. Yes, you read that correctly.
“What?” I exclaimed, sitting upright, my calm visit morphing into a stark reminder that I was edging closer to the big four-oh. (Okay, I’ve already crossed that milestone, but let’s pretend I’m still in my thirties for narrative purposes. Next time, I might even say I’m in my twenties.)
“Definitely stage 2 prolapse,” she confirmed. “Would you like to see it?”
“Absolutely not,” I replied. Why would I want to witness the evidence of my body’s downfall? “But what does this mean?” I probed.
“Do you find yourself going to the bathroom often or struggling to go?” she asked.
“Hmm.” I hadn’t given it much thought. Sure, I had started waking up nightly and found myself in a race against time during car rides—sometimes even the short ones. I assumed it was just a phase, like the linea nigra that was still slowly fading from my belly or the baby weight I was shedding at a glacial pace of .25 pounds a month. “Is this a problem?”
“At your age, it’s not ideal. But don’t worry! There’s always the option of surgery to lift it back into place,” she said.
Wait, what? Surgery? Isn’t that what my seventy-year-old mother-in-law had last year? How did I end up in this situation so soon? Sensing my unease, she suggested pelvic floor therapy instead.
“It’ll help strengthen your muscles,” she reassured me. As she spoke, I felt an urge to pee, but I suppressed it. Why confront reality when I could just ignore it?
Parenthood had already claimed so much from me: my once-flat waist (okay, I never really had a flat waist, but let’s indulge in that fantasy), my manicured nails, the luxury of non-elastic waistbands, my youthful bosom (which was never really youthful either). I’d come to terms with all those sacrifices for my precious children. But my bladder? That was a bridge too far. I had always taken pride in its resilience, how well it managed during long flights, and how quickly it could empty. I was even complimented in public restrooms for my speed. That’s no exaggeration. I would never lie about my bladder.
Yet now, it was beginning to fail me, a stark reminder that I was entering middle age. I was not ready to face this new reality. Determined to set things right and restore my bladder to its former glory, I signed up for pelvic floor therapy after indulging in a half box of Oreos.
Upon entering the therapy center, I was greeted by a serene atmosphere. The air was filled with the scent of lavender, and a gentle waterfall trickled down the wall behind the receptionist. The receptionist spoke softly, handing me forms to fill out with an assurance that there was no rush. According to the pamphlet, I would embark on exercises designed to strengthen my pelvic floor muscles, helping to keep my bladder in place and allowing me to run without any accidents (and I don’t mean dribbling a basketball).
After submitting my forms, a petite woman named Ms. H arrived to escort me. She walked on her tiptoes as if she were gliding in her Skechers, and she chatted nonstop, which made me a bit uneasy.
“I’m Ms. H! Are you excited to start?” she asked.
“Well, that depends,” I replied. “Depends,” I added, trying to make light of the situation. She didn’t chuckle. Ms. H asked me about the reason for my visit.
“My doctor said I have a prolapse,” I admitted.
“Are you experiencing incontinence?” she asked.
“You mean like my grandma?” I replied. The term felt stigmatizing, as though I had done something wrong. Perhaps having a third child really was too much for my bladder.
“It’s okay to acknowledge it,” she encouraged.
I do have those nighttime bathroom trips and frequent urges, but admitting it felt too personal, almost shameful.
“Let me explain pelvic floor therapy. We aim to strengthen the muscles that support your bladder,” she said, producing a small rubber chicken from her desk. “What happens over time, especially after childbirth, is that these muscles weaken, and gravity pulls the bladder down. Let me show you.” She squeezed the chicken until a small pouch emerged from its bottom. “That’s what’s happening to your bladder.”
She instructed me to lie on the table and demonstrated some exercises, guiding me to tilt my pelvis and squeeze those muscles. “Now, inhale, raise your pelvis, squeeze for five seconds, then exhale and lower yourself. Inhale again,” she directed.
“Got it,” I said, lying through my teeth.
“Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Exhale. Release. Inhale,” she continued, while I tried to keep up, terrified of exhaling when I should inhale. Before long, I was sweating profusely. This was no leisurely spa day.
“Now, I want you to pretend your vagina is a straw trying to suck up a milkshake. Suck as hard as you can,” she instructed, resting her delicate hand on my arm.
I’ve imagined my vagina as many things, but never as a straw. I attempted to suck with all my might, but it felt like a monumental effort. “Are you sucking hard enough?” she kept asking, but I was at my limit. My pelvic floor was experiencing performance anxiety, and I felt a wave of sadness and defeat. I wanted to give up. Did I really need to do this?
Once I left, I called my husband seeking reassurance. “The lesson is always don’t have kids,” he quipped. “How big of a deal could this really be? You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” Why had I expected support from him? His bladder was still perfectly intact and functioning.
But it was a significant issue. At 29—uh, 40—I was waking up at least once or twice a night to pee. Running was challenging because ten minutes in, I would need to stop and find a restroom. 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 to him, sitting a bit taller in my chair, proud to embrace the truth. “Can I hang up now?” he asked, unfazed by my admission. “Whatever,” I replied, indulging in the other half of my Oreos, reminding myself, “Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Release. Exhale.” I’ve had to switch from milkshakes to ice cream cones, though.
For more insights on this topic, check out this blog post or visit Women’s Health for excellent resources on pregnancy and home insemination. Additionally, if you’re interested in pregnancy guidelines, this site is a great authority.
Summary:
In this candid reflection, the author shares her experience with bladder prolapse, a condition exacerbated by motherhood. After a shocking diagnosis from her OB/GYN, she embarks on a journey through pelvic floor therapy to regain control over her body and confront the realities of aging. With humor and vulnerability, she navigates the challenges of incontinence, ultimately seeking to reclaim her quality of life despite the toll parenthood has taken.