Parenthood Took My Bladder

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Lifestyle

by Mia Parker
March 30, 2021
Yazgi Bayram Getty

In an unexpected twist during my annual check-up, my OB/GYN—my trusted partner in female health—revealed something shocking: she could actually see my bladder. Yes, you read that right.

“What?” I exclaimed, bolting upright. My peaceful moment of solitude transformed into a harsh reminder that I was inching toward the big four-oh. (Okay, I’ve already crossed that line, but let’s pretend I’m still in my thirties for the sake of this article. Maybe I’ll even claim I’m in my twenties next time.)

“Yes, definitely a stage 2 prolapse,” she confirmed. “Would you like to see it?”

“Absolutely not!” I retorted. Why would I want to witness the physical evidence of my body’s decline? “But what does this mean?”

“Are you experiencing frequent trips to the bathroom or straining?” she asked.

“Hmm.” I hadn’t really given it much thought. Sure, I had noticed waking up multiple times a night, and I often couldn’t make it through long car rides (sometimes even short ones). But I assumed it was just a temporary issue, like the linea negra that’s still slowly fading or the thirty pounds of baby weight I’m shedding at the glacial pace of .25 pounds per month. “Is this serious?”

“At your age, it’s not ideal. But don’t stress. You can always have it surgically lifted back into place,” she said.

Wait, what? Lift it back? Isn’t that the same procedure my mother-in-law had last year? How did I get to this point so soon? Sensing my hesitation, she suggested pelvic floor therapy instead.

“It will help strengthen the muscles,” she assured me. As she spoke, I felt a familiar urge to pee, but I suppressed it. Why face the truth when I could simply ignore it?

Parenthood had already taken so much from me: my once-trim waist (okay, it was never that trim, but let’s pretend), my well-manicured nails, my ability to wear non-elastic pants, and my once-perky bosom (they never really were, either). I had come to terms with all of that in exchange for my precious little ones. But my bladder? That was a hard pill to swallow. I had always been proud of its capacity, especially during long flights, and how quickly it could empty. People often commented on my efficiency in public restrooms. That’s a fact I would never lie about.

Now, it seemed like that was all coming to an end. My bladder had been a loyal companion over the years, and now it felt like the first sign of my unwelcome transition into middle age. I resolved to rectify the damage my three pregnancies had inflicted on my bladder, which had been nothing but supportive. After indulging in half a box of Oreos, I signed up for pelvic floor therapy.

Upon entering the clinic, I was greeted by a calming atmosphere: the air was scented with lavender, and a waterfall cascaded down the wall behind the receptionist. The receptionist spoke in hushed tones, encouraging me to take my time filling out the forms. The pamphlet promised a journey to strengthen my pelvic floor muscles, allowing me to regain control and run without the risk of dribbling (and I don’t mean a basketball).

After submitting my forms, a petite woman, maybe 5’1” and 100 pounds, appeared to guide me to the therapy room. She walked on her tiptoes and floated in her Skecher sneakers. She chatted as we walked, which made me uneasy.

“So, I’m Mrs. G. Are you excited to get started?” she asked.

“Well, that depends, Mrs. G. Depends,” I joked, but she didn’t catch the humor.

She asked a series of introductory questions about my condition.

“My doctor says I have a prolapse,” I explained.

“And are you experiencing incontinence?” she inquired.

“Like my grandma?” I responded, feeling ashamed of the label. Perhaps the third child had truly been too much, the final straw for my bladder.

“It’s okay to admit it,” she reassured me.

I do find myself peeing frequently, especially at night, but admitting it felt too private, too shameful.

“Let me explain pelvic floor therapy. We aim to strengthen the muscles that support your bladder.” She produced a 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 until a pouch emerged from its bottom. “That’s what’s happening to your bladder.”

She guided me to the therapy table for some exercises. I lay flat, knees bent, pelvis tilted. “Now, tilt your pelvis and squeeze those muscles. Inhale, raise your pelvis up, squeeze for five seconds while exhaling, then lower yourself. Inhale.”

“Got it?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Exhale. Release. Inhale,” she instructed, while I followed along, terrified of mixing up the sequences. Within minutes, I was sweating profusely. This was no spa day.

“Now, pretend your vagina is a straw trying to suck up a milkshake. Just try to suck as hard as you can,” she said, resting her tiny hand on my much larger arm.

I’ve imagined my vagina as many things, but never a straw. I tried to suck as hard as I could, but felt immense pressure—not just from my bladder. She kept asking, “Are you sucking hard enough?” but I just couldn’t. My pelvic floor seemed to be suffering from stage fright. A wave of sadness and defeat washed over me. I wanted to give up. Did I even need this therapy?

After the session, I called my husband for some support. “The lesson is always don’t have kids,” he quipped. “How serious could this really be that you need therapy? You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” I wasn’t sure why I expected empathy. His bladder was still functioning properly, after all. But it was a big deal. I’m 29—okay, 40—and I wake up at least once a night to pee. I can’t run anywhere except my cul-de-sac because I always need to stop to relieve myself. I know every gas station within a ten-mile radius of my home.

“I’m dealing with incontinence, and it’s affecting my quality of life,” I finally admitted. “Can I hang up now?” he responded, seemingly unfazed. “Whatever,” I said, and rewarded myself with the other half of the Oreos. I sat back, determined: “Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Release. Exhale.” I’ve had to switch from milkshakes to ice cream cones, though.

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In summary, motherhood has taken a toll on my body, including my bladder, leading to a diagnosis of prolapse and a need for pelvic floor therapy. Despite the challenges, I’m determined to reclaim my body and navigate this new phase of life with humor and resilience.

Keyphrase: Parenthood and bladder health

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