Let’s be clear: my pelvic health is in disarray. The state of my intimate area resembles a neglected back alley rather than a well-maintained garden. Remember that scene in Money Pit where Tom Hanks and Shelley Long peer through a gaping hole in the floor? That’s basically my pelvic floor right now. I know I’m referencing an old movie, but hey, it’s the internet; look it up if you need to.
I assumed that opting for a C-section during the birth of my daughter would spare my body any significant damage. You’d think that taking the “easy” route (insert sarcasm) would leave my lady bits unscathed, but no—my body had other plans. The pain was pervasive, and I learned the hard way that major abdominal surgery is no picnic. Once I could manage basic bodily functions without tears, I was introduced to the unfortunate reality of involuntary leaks when I sneezed. It was as if my pelvic floor was slowly becoming a fixer-upper.
Fast-forward three years, and it was time for my son to make his entrance the “natural” way (again, sarcasm). My body was put to the ultimate test, and let’s just say it didn’t pass with flying colors. After an epic struggle and far too many interventions, he finally made his debut—complete with a suction cup on his head, no less. One nurse even remarked that it was one of the messiest births she had ever witnessed.
Post-birth, during my first shower, I discovered the reality of my situation: I felt stretched, cut, and stitched together like a patchwork quilt. To my surprise, I also noticed a balloon-like object that seemed intent on escaping through my vagina. This was alarming, but with six weeks of recovery ahead of me, I decided to ignore it for the time being.
When I finally mustered the courage to address this balloon situation, I found myself in an exam room, clad in a flimsy paper gown. An examination revealed the truth: I have a prolapsed bladder. Yes, you read that correctly—a part of my bladder is falling out.
While it’s not the end of the world, it certainly presents some challenges. I’ve become accustomed to shouting, “Hang on! I’m about to pee my pants!” when I need to rush to the bathroom. Despite countless hours of Kegel exercises, I still find myself in precarious situations. Luckily, my sex life remains unaffected, so all in all, I’m managing.
There’s an interesting upside to this condition. When someone insists that leggings aren’t pants, I simply respond, “They are if you have a prolapsed bladder!” The pressure from real waistbands is unbearable, making leggings my go-to choice for comfort.
I love my kids dearly, but sometimes I just need a moment of peace. They have a knack for crowding me, which can be overwhelming. On days when I feel particularly squished, I tactfully declare, “Mommy has a boo-boo right now!” and step away from the chaos. It’s not a lie; my pelvic floor resembles a marshmallow and sudden jabs from tiny elbows can lead to unexpected emergencies.
Let’s not forget the guilt card I have tucked away in my leggings. One day, during family photo prep, when someone decides they hate their outfit, I’ll have my moment. I’ll pull out that card and assert, “My bladder has been out of position for YEARS. I’ve endured public mishaps all for you. Now smile like you mean it!” We all have our guilt trips, don’t we?
Living with a prolapsed bladder has its quirks. I’ve navigated the learning curve of menstrual cups and have become adept at stealthily changing my underwear. I’m looking forward to the day when a skilled surgeon can help restore my pelvic area, but until then, it’s all about those Kegels!
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In summary, while managing a prolapsed bladder can be challenging, it’s also a unique journey filled with humorous moments and a few lessons learned along the way.