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In a rather shocking twist, my go-to OB/GYN, who I trust implicitly for all things feminine health, revealed during my annual check-up that she could literally see my bladder. Yes, you read that right.
“What?” I exclaimed, sitting up abruptly, my peaceful moment of solitude quickly morphing into a stark reminder that turning 40, and all its implications, was looming closer. (Okay, I’ve already crossed that threshold, but let’s pretend I’m still in my thirties for the sake of this narrative. Maybe in my next story, I’ll even be back in my twenties.)
“Definitely stage 2 prolapse,” she confirmed. “Want to take a look?”
“No, I’d rather not,” I replied. Why on earth would I want to see the physical proof of my body’s decline? “But what does that even mean?” I inquired.
“Well, have you been frequenting the bathroom or straining when you go?” she asked.
“Hmm.” I had noticed waking up every night and struggling during long car rides (sometimes even short ones). But I assumed it was just a temporary issue that would resolve itself over time, like the linea negra still fading on my belly or the thirty pounds of baby weight I seemed to be shedding at a snail’s pace. “Is this a serious issue?” I asked.
“At your age, it’s not ideal. But don’t worry, you can always get it surgically lifted back in,” she said.
Wait, what? Lift it back inside? Wasn’t that the same surgery my 70-year-old mother-in-law had last year? How did I end up here so soon? Sensing my reluctance, she suggested pelvic floor therapy instead.
“It’ll help strengthen your muscles,” she said. As she spoke, I felt the urge to pee, but I suppressed it. Why confront reality when I could simply ignore it?
Parenthood had already stripped away so much: my slim waist (okay, I never really had a slim waist, but let’s pretend for this piece), my perfectly manicured nails, the ability to wear pants without elastic waistbands, my once-perky bosom (which, to be fair, was never truly perky either). I had accepted all these losses in exchange for my adorable little ones. But my bladder? That felt like a bridge too far. I had always appreciated it, even admired its efficiency during long-haul flights and its quickness in public restrooms. Now, that reliability was slipping away, marking my descent into middle age. I wasn’t ready for this reality. I made a vow to restore what my three pregnancies had taken from my loyal bladder, who had been a steadfast friend over the years. So, after indulging in half a box of Oreos, I enrolled in pelvic floor therapy.
Upon entering the clinic, the atmosphere initially felt calming and serene. The air was infused with lavender, and a gentle waterfall cascaded behind the receptionist’s desk. The receptionist spoke softly, handing me forms with a promise of no rush. According to the brochure, I was about to embark on a journey of exercises designed to train my pelvic floor muscles to support my bladder and regain my ability to run without any accidents (and I’m not talking basketball here).
After submitting my forms, a petite woman named Mrs. Green came to lead me to the therapy room. She was maybe 5’1” and 100 pounds, walking on her tiptoes as if she was floating in her Skechers. Her friendly chatter as we walked was a bit disconcerting.
“So, I’m Mrs. Green, are you excited to get started?” she asked.
“Depends, Mrs. Green. Depends.” I chuckled at my own joke, which she didn’t seem to get. She began asking introductory questions about my situation.
“My doctor says I have a prolapse,” I admitted.
“And are you experiencing incontinence?” she inquired.
“Like my grandma?” I replied. That term felt heavy, almost shameful. Perhaps the third child had indeed been the tipping point for my bladder.
“It’s okay to admit that,” she reassured me.
I do have frequent leaks and wake up multiple times a night, but admitting it felt too personal and embarrassing.
“Let me explain pelvic floor therapy. We aim to strengthen the muscles that support your bladder,” she said, pulling out a small rubber chicken. “Over time, especially after childbirth, these muscles weaken, and gravity takes its toll.” She squeezed the chicken, and a little pouch emerged from underneath. “That’s what’s happening with your bladder.”
She instructed me to hop onto the treatment table and demonstrated some exercises. “Lay flat on your back with your knees bent. Tilt your pelvis and squeeze those muscles. Inhale, raise your pelvis, squeeze for five seconds while exhaling, then lower. Inhale.”
“Got it,” I said, even though I was lying.
“Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Exhale. Release. Inhale,” she guided, and I followed, anxious not to lose track of the sequence. Within minutes, I was sweating. This wasn’t a spa day at all.
“Now, I want you to 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 larger arm.
I’ve imagined my vagina as many things throughout my life, but never as a straw. I tried my best, but the pressure was intense (and not just from my bladder). She kept prompting, “Are you sucking hard enough?” But I just couldn’t anymore. My pelvic floor was experiencing performance anxiety. I felt disheartened and defeated, ready to give up. Did I truly need this? Or was it just an overreaction?
When I left, I called my husband for encouragement. “The lesson is always: don’t have kids,” he said. “How big a deal could this really be that you need therapy? You’re blowing it out of proportion.” It was confusing why I expected support; after all, his bladder still seemed perfectly intact. But deep down, I knew it was significant. At 29—err, 40—I woke up at least once or twice a night to pee. I could only jog around my neighborhood because, ten minutes in, I always had to make a pit stop. I knew every gas station within a ten-mile radius of my house.
“I’m incontinent, and it’s impacting my quality of life,” I finally said, sitting taller and proud to admit it. “Can I hang up now?” he asked, unaffected by my revelation. “Whatever,” I replied. I treated myself to the other half of the Oreos and settled back, ready to tackle this: “Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Release. Exhale.” Although I did have to switch from milkshakes to ice cream cones.
For more insights on this topic, you can check out this blog post. There are also great resources available on women’s health during pregnancy and couples’ fertility journeys that are worth exploring.
Potential Search Queries:
- Pelvic floor therapy benefits
- Signs of bladder prolapse
- Incontinence after childbirth
- How to strengthen pelvic floor muscles
- Coping with postpartum changes
Summary:
In this light-hearted yet poignant narrative, Mia Thompson confronts the unexpected challenges of motherhood, particularly the impact it has had on her bladder health. Following a startling revelation from her OB/GYN regarding her stage 2 prolapse, she embarks on a journey of pelvic floor therapy, grappling with feelings of embarrassment and defeat. Through humor and candid admissions, Mia navigates her new reality, while also addressing the broader implications of parenthood on her body.
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