In a shocking revelation during my annual exam, my trusted OB/GYN—my go-to for all things feminine health—delivered some unexpected news: she could see my bladder. Yes, you read that right.
“What?” I exclaimed, abruptly sitting up. My moment of calm quickly shifted to a harsh reminder that I was no longer in my thirties, and the realities of turning forty were creeping in (okay, I might have already crossed that milestone, but let’s pretend I’m still in my youthful years).
“Definitely stage 2 prolapse,” she confirmed. “Would you like to see it?”
“No, thank you,” I replied, baffled. Why on earth would I want to witness the physical evidence of my body’s decline? “But what does that mean?”
“Are you finding yourself rushing to the bathroom or straining to go?” she asked.
“Hmm,” I pondered. I had noticed that I was waking up every night and struggling on long drives (sometimes even on short ones). I thought it was a temporary issue, like the fading linea negra on my belly or the stubborn baby weight that seemed to be leaving at a snail’s pace. “Is this a problem?”
“At your age, it’s not ideal. 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 undergone? How did I get to this point already? Sensing my uncertainty, she suggested pelvic floor therapy instead.
“It’ll help strengthen those muscles,” she assured me. As she spoke, I felt the urge to pee but decided to ignore it. Why confront reality when I could just pretend it wasn’t happening?
Parenthood had already taken so much from me—my waistline (okay, I never really had a tiny waist, but let’s pretend), my manicured nails, the ability to wear anything other than elastic waistbands, and my once-perky bosom (which was never truly perky). I accepted all of that for my adorable children, but my bladder? That felt like too much to bear. I had always been proud of my bladder, how it could hold its own on long flights, and how quickly it emptied. People had even commented on it in public restrooms, saying things like, “Wow, you go so quickly!”
Now, it seemed my bladder was slipping away—my first sign of entering middle age. I wasn’t ready to face that truth. After indulging in a half-box of Oreos, I decided to take action and signed up for pelvic floor therapy.
Upon entering the clinic, I was greeted with a soothing atmosphere. The air was scented with lavender, and a small waterfall trickled behind the receptionist. She spoke in hushed tones as she handed me forms to fill out, assuring me that there was no rush. The pamphlet promised a journey of exercises to train my pelvic floor muscles to regain control and allow me to run without fear of leaks (and I’m not talking about basketball).
After completing the forms, a petite woman named Mrs. Green led me back for my session. She floated on her tiptoes, chatting as we walked, which felt oddly unsettling.
“So, are you excited to get started?” she asked.
“Depends, Mrs. G. Depends,” I chuckled at my own joke, which she didn’t seem to catch. After some introductory questions, I admitted, “My doctor says I have a prolapse.”
“And are you experiencing incontinence?”
“Like my grandma?” I shot back. The term felt shameful, as if I were admitting to some sin. Maybe the third child had been the tipping point for my bladder’s decline.
“It’s okay to acknowledge it,” she encouraged.
I do have accidents and wake frequently at night, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit that. It felt too personal.
“Let me explain pelvic floor therapy. We’re working to strengthen the muscles that support your bladder,” she said, pulling out a small rubber chicken. “Over time and after childbirth, these muscles weaken, allowing gravity to pull the bladder downward. Here’s how it works.” She squeezed the chicken until a small pouch appeared. “That’s what’s happening to your bladder.”
She instructed me to hop onto the table for some exercises. “Lay flat with your knees bent. Tilt your pelvis, squeeze those muscles, inhale, raise your pelvis, hold for five seconds, then release.”
“Think you got it?” she asked.
“Yes,” I lied, trying to mask my anxiety about mixing up the steps. Within minutes, I was sweating profusely. This was no day at the spa.
“Now, imagine your vagina is a straw trying to suck up a milkshake. Just suck as hard as you can,” she instructed, resting her tiny hand on my arm.
In my life, I’ve imagined my vagina as many things, but never a straw. I attempted to suck as hard as possible, but the pressure was overwhelming. “Are you sucking hard enough?” she kept asking, but I felt like I was failing. My pelvic floor was experiencing performance anxiety. Defeat washed over me, and I wanted to give up. Did I even need this therapy?
Afterward, I called my husband for support. “The lesson is simple: don’t have kids,” he quipped. “How big a deal could this really be? You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” I should have known better than to expect sympathy from someone whose bladder is still in its place. But this was a significant issue. I’m 29—oops, I mean 40—and I wake up to pee at least once or twice a night. Running is a challenge because I can’t go far before needing a bathroom. I’ve memorized every gas station within a ten-mile radius of my home.
“I’m incontinent, and it’s affecting my quality of life,” I conceded, finally proud to admit the truth. “Can I hang up now?” he asked, seemingly unfazed by my revelation. “Whatever,” I muttered, rewarding myself with the other half of the Oreos. I sat back and reminded myself, “Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Release.” Though I had to switch my focus from milkshakes to ice cream cones.
If you’re looking for more information, check out some of our other blog posts, like this one on the journey of home insemination, which can provide valuable insights on related topics. For those considering fertility treatments, the March of Dimes is an excellent resource.
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In summary, motherhood can have unexpected challenges, including the toll it takes on our bodies. While the journey may be difficult, it’s essential to seek help and find solutions to reclaim your health and well-being.
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