In a shocking twist during my annual check-up, my gynecologist—who has been my unwavering support through all things feminine health—revealed that she could literally see my bladder. Yes, you read that right.
“What?” I exclaimed, my moment of peace quickly morphing into an unsettling reminder that I was now in my forties (okay, I actually passed that milestone, but let me live in denial for a bit longer).
“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 this mean for me?”
“Are you finding yourself running to the bathroom more often, or straining to go?” she probed.
“Hmm.” I hadn’t really considered it until now. Sure, I woke up multiple times at night and struggled on long drives (sometimes even short ones), but I assumed it was just a temporary issue—like the fading linea negra on my belly or the baby weight that was disappearing at a snail’s pace. “Is this a big deal?” I asked.
“Well, at your age, it’s not ideal. But don’t worry; there’s always the option of surgery to fix it,” she said.
Wait, surgery? Isn’t that what my 70-year-old mother-in-law had just last year? How did I find myself facing this so soon? Sensing my dread, she suggested pelvic floor therapy instead.
“It’ll help strengthen your muscles,” she assured me. As she spoke, I felt the familiar urge to pee but pushed it aside. Why confront an issue when I could simply ignore it?
Parenthood had already claimed many things from me: my waistline (which I never really had, but let’s pretend), my polished nails, the freedom to wear non-elastic pants, and even the perkiness of my bosom (okay, that was never really there either). But my bladder? That felt like too much to bear. I had always taken pride in it—how it could hold up on long flights, how quickly it could empty. Others had even complimented my speed in public restrooms.
And now, here I was. My trusty bladder, slipping away—an unwelcome sign of hitting middle age. I resolved to reclaim what my three pregnancies had taken from me. After indulging in half a box of Oreos, I decided to try pelvic floor therapy.
Upon entering the therapy center, I was struck by its tranquil ambiance. The air was infused with lavender, and a soothing waterfall cascaded behind the receptionist, who spoke in hushed tones as she handed me forms to fill out, assuring me there was no rush. According to the pamphlet, I would be embarking on a journey to strengthen my pelvic floor muscles, allowing me to run without the impending fear of dribbling (and not in a basketball sense).
After submitting my forms, a petite woman named Mrs. G. came to escort me back. She walked lightly, almost as if she were floating, and chatted as we walked, which was a bit unnerving.
“So, are you excited to get started?” she asked.
“Depends, Mrs. G. Depends,” I joked, but she didn’t seem to catch on. She began asking questions about my situation.
“My doctor said I have a prolapse,” I admitted.
“And are you experiencing incontinence?” she inquired.
“You mean like my grandma?” I grimaced. The term felt loaded, as if I had done something wrong. Perhaps my third child had pushed my bladder over the edge.
“It’s okay to be honest,” she encouraged.
I knew I often wet myself and woke up at night, but admitting it felt too private.
“Pelvic floor therapy aims to strengthen the muscles that support your bladder,” she explained, pulling out a small rubber chicken. “Over time and after childbirth, these muscles weaken, and gravity pulls the bladder down.” She squeezed the chicken until a small pouch emerged from its bottom. “This is what’s happening to your bladder.”
Then she instructed me to lie on the table to demonstrate some exercises. “Tilt your pelvis and squeeze,” she said. “Now inhale, raise your pelvis, squeeze those muscles for five seconds, then exhale and release.”
“Got it,” I lied, feeling overwhelmed by the instructions.
“Imagine your vagina is a straw trying to suck up a milkshake,” she directed.
I had never likened my vagina to a straw before. I tried my hardest to comply, but the pressure was intense (and not just from my bladder). “Are you sucking hard enough?” she kept asking, but I felt defeated.
After leaving, I called my husband for support. “The lesson is don’t have kids,” he said. “How serious could this really be?” His bladder was still intact, so he couldn’t relate. But it was serious for me. I was 29—err, 40—and waking up at least once a night to pee. Running was impossible without frequent stops. I knew every gas station within ten miles of my home.
“I’m incontinent, and it’s affecting my quality of life,” I finally admitted, feeling proud of my honesty. “Can I hang up now?” he replied, unfazed by my revelation. “Whatever,” I sighed, treating myself to the other half of the Oreos. I reassured myself that I could tackle this: “Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Release.” Although I had to switch from milkshakes to ice cream cones.
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