In a shocking revelation during my annual check-up, my OB/GYN—my go-to for all things lady-related—told me that she could literally see my bladder. Yes, you read that right.
“What?” I exclaimed, instantly sitting up and feeling my peaceful moment vanish. My forty-something reality hit me hard. (Okay, fine. I’ve already crossed that milestone, but let’s just pretend I’m living in my thirties for the sake of this article.)
“Definitely stage 2 prolapse,” she confirmed. “Care to take a look?”
“No, thank you,” I replied. Why would I want to witness the evidence of my body’s decline? “What does that mean for me?”
“Are you visiting the restroom more often or having trouble while doing so?” she inquired.
“Hmm,” I pondered. I had noticed that I was waking up nightly and struggling on long car journeys (sometimes even on short ones). But I thought it was a temporary issue, like the fading linea negra on my belly, or the lingering thirty pounds of baby weight that seemed to be disappearing at a snail’s pace. “Is this serious?”
“At your age, not ideal. But don’t fret! There’s always surgery to lift it back into place,” she offered.
Wait, what? A surgical procedure? Isn’t that what my elderly mother-in-law had last year? How did I reach this point so quickly? Sensing my hesitation, she recommended pelvic floor therapy instead.
“It’ll help strengthen your muscles,” she said. As she spoke, I felt that familiar urge to pee but pushed it aside. Why confront the truth when I could just ignore it?
Parenthood had already taken so much from me—my waistline (which was never actually tiny, but let’s pretend), my manicured nails, the ability to wear non-elastic pants, and my once-perky breasts (which were never truly perky either). I had accepted these losses for the sake of my beautiful children. But my bladder? That was a different story. I had always appreciated its reliable nature, especially during long flights. Now it felt like I was losing my old friend.
Determined to reclaim what my three pregnancies had taken from me, I signed up for pelvic floor therapy after devouring half a box of Oreos.
Upon entering the clinic, I was greeted by a serene atmosphere filled with lavender scents and the sound of a gentle waterfall. The receptionist, speaking in hushed tones, handed me forms to complete at my own pace. According to their brochure, I would embark on a journey of exercises designed to fortify the muscles that support my bladder—allowing me to run without fear of accidental dribbles (and no, I don’t mean basketball).
After filling out the forms, a petite woman named Mrs. W. escorted me to the therapy room. She seemed to glide across the floor in her comfy sneakers, chatting as we walked, which made me a bit uneasy.
“So, are you excited to get started?” she asked.
“Depends, Mrs. W. Depends,” I chuckled, but she didn’t seem to catch my humor. She began to ask about my reasons for being there.
“My doctor says I have a prolapse,” I admitted.
“Are you experiencing incontinence?” she probed.
“You mean like my grandma?” I asked, feeling a twinge of shame. It felt like an admission of guilt, as though I had done something wrong—perhaps that third child was indeed the tipping point for my bladder.
“It’s okay to say it,” she encouraged.
I do find myself wetting myself regularly, waking up in the night more than once, but admitting it felt too personal.
“Let me explain pelvic floor therapy. We aim to strengthen the muscles that support your bladder,” she said, producing a small rubber chicken from her desk. “Over time, and after childbirth, these muscles weaken and gravity pulls the bladder down. Let me show you.” She squeezed the chicken, and a small pouch emerged from its bottom. “That’s what’s happening to your bladder.”
She instructed me to hop on the table and demonstrated some exercises, guiding me through pelvic tilts and muscle squeezes. “Pretend your vagina is a straw trying to suck up a milkshake,” she said. I thought I’d imagined it all, but never had I thought of my vagina in such a way. Despite my efforts, I felt overwhelmed and defeated.
After the session, I called my husband for support. “The lesson here is to avoid having kids,” he replied. “How big of a deal is this really? You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” I shouldn’t have expected understanding from him—his bladder was still functioning perfectly. But this was a significant issue for me. I’m 40 and waking up to pee multiple times a night. Running is a challenge since I can’t go ten minutes without needing a restroom. I know all the nearby gas stations by heart.
“I’m incontinent, and it’s impacting my quality of life,” I finally admitted, feeling a sense of pride in my honesty. “Can I hang up now?” he asked, seemingly indifferent to my struggles. “Whatever,” I replied, treating myself to the other half of the Oreos. “I can do this: Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Release.” Though it’s clear I need to switch from milkshakes to ice cream cones.
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Check out this post on home insemination and how to navigate the journey. If you’re looking for support, Make a Mom offers a fantastic range of resources, and the ACOG website is an excellent source for information on pregnancy and home insemination.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the author’s experience of discovering her bladder prolapse during a routine check-up, the emotional impact of motherhood on her body, and her journey towards recovery through pelvic floor therapy. Despite the challenges, she embraces the process and shares her candid feelings about the changes in her body post-childbirth.