You know, I’ve always held myself to high standards and thrive under pressure. So when I first heard about the potential mishaps during childbirth, I just laughed it off. I mean, the idea seemed utterly ridiculous—something that couldn’t possibly happen to me. After all, I’m the one in control when it counts.
I’ve always prided myself on my self-control and dignity, feeling confident that I had everything in check. So, when well-meaning folks tried to share their childbirth horror stories, I waved them off. Little did I know how wrong I was.
Looking back, I realize how naive I was. The experience left me feeling shattered, and I don’t think I’ll ever fully recover from it. Once confident and assured, I now struggle with insecurities over even the simplest tasks.
The incident itself? It was no bigger than a dime or maybe a nickel—size doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. As a wise scientist once said, it’s the existence of the event that counts. I felt it happen, even if I couldn’t see it, and the shame still haunts me over a decade later. Despite the lack of sensation down there, I was aware of what had occurred.
I mean, my nurse’s horrified expression told me everything I needed to know. Her awkward attempt to sneak away with the evidence fell flat; I’m not easy to fool. And my husband? He was cowering in the corner, wishing he could disappear. But that didn’t matter to me at that moment. The nurse didn’t know my history, but I knew hers.
When I asked her a direct question, her evasive response felt like a slap in the face. “Congratulations, Mrs. Jenkins! Your baby is beautiful!” she said, all while I was sitting there thinking, “I just pooped on the table.”
Nothing else matters now.
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In summary, my experience during delivery was a wake-up call that humbled me in ways I never expected. The sense of dignity I once held onto slipped away, leaving me with a mix of embarrassment and vulnerability that I carry with me to this day.
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