do at-home insemination kits work?
In a shocking moment during my annual exam, my trusted OB/GYN told me she could see my bladder. Yes, you read that right—see it.
“What?!” I exclaimed, my peaceful visit morphing into an unwelcome wake-up call about the realities of aging. (Okay, so I’ve already hit the big 4-0, but let’s pretend I’m still in my thirties for the sake of this article. Who knows, maybe next time I’ll even claim to be in my twenties!)
“Definitely stage 2 prolapse,” she confirmed. “Want to take a look?”
“No, thank you,” I replied. Why would I want to witness the evidence of my body’s decline? “But what does this mean?”
“Are you frequently using the bathroom or straining?” she inquired.
“Well…” I hadn’t really considered it much. Sure, I woke up every night and found myself struggling on long drives (sometimes even the short ones), but I assumed it was temporary—like the linea nigra still fading from my belly or the thirty pounds of baby weight I was shedding at a glacial pace. “Is this a problem?” I asked.
“At your age, it’s not ideal,” she said. “But don’t worry, you can always have it surgically repositioned.”
What? Wasn’t that what my seventy-year-old mother-in-law had done last year? How did I find myself facing this so soon? Sensing my reluctance, she suggested pelvic floor therapy instead.
“It will strengthen your muscles,” she reassured me. As she spoke, I felt the urge to pee rise again, but I pushed it down. Why confront reality when I could pretend it wasn’t happening?
Parenthood had already taken so much from me—my waistline (which was never tiny, but let’s just pretend), my perfectly manicured nails, the ability to wear non-elastic pants, and my once-perky bosom (okay, they were never truly perky either). I accepted all of that in exchange for my beautiful children. But my bladder? That felt like a bridge too far. I’d always taken pride in how well it functioned, whether on long flights or quick trips to the restroom, earning compliments like “Wow, you’re fast!”
Now, it seemed like that chapter was closing. This was the first sign of middle age I wasn’t ready to face. So, after indulging in a half box of Oreos, I signed up for pelvic floor therapy.
Upon arriving, the clinic appeared tranquil, with a lavender scent and a waterfall flowing behind the receptionist. She spoke softly, encouraging me to fill out forms at my own pace. According to the pamphlet, I was about to embark on a journey to strengthen my pelvic floor muscles—essentially, a chance to regain control of my bladder and run without worrying about leaks (and I’m not talking about basketball).
After handing in the forms, a petite woman named Mrs. Green led me back. She had a lightness in her step, almost floating in her Skecher sneakers as she chatted amiably, which was slightly unnerving.
“Ready to get started?” she asked.
“Depends, Mrs. G. Depends,” I joked, but she seemed oblivious to the humor. She asked about my condition and whether I experienced incontinence.
“Like my grandma?” I replied, feeling embarrassed. The term felt stigmatizing, as if I’d done something wrong. Perhaps the third child had indeed been too much, leading to this moment.
“It’s okay to admit it,” she said gently.
I knew I struggled with nighttime bathroom trips, but admitting it felt too personal.
“Pelvic floor therapy aims to strengthen the muscles that support your bladder,” she explained, pulling out a small rubber chicken. “Over time and after childbirth, these muscles weaken and gravity takes over.” She squeezed the chicken, and a small pouch appeared. “That’s what’s happening to your bladder.”
I hopped onto the table, following her instructions. “Tilt your pelvis, squeeze those muscles, inhale, raise your pelvis up, hold, and then release.”
“Got it?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, lying through my teeth.
As the session progressed, I was sweating. This was no spa day.
“Imagine your vagina is a straw trying to suck up a milkshake,” she instructed. “Just suck as hard as you can.”
In my lifetime, I’ve imagined my vagina as many things, but never a straw. I tried my best, but the pressure was overwhelming. “Are you sucking hard enough?” she probed. My pelvic floor was clearly experiencing performance anxiety. I felt defeated and sad, questioning my commitment to this journey.
Afterward, I called my husband for encouragement. “The lesson is always don’t have kids,” he joked. “Is this really a big deal? You’re overreacting.”
Why did I expect more? His bladder was still doing fine, so he couldn’t relate. But it was indeed a big deal. At 29—uh, I mean 40—I woke up at least once or twice a night and could only run short distances because I was always in need of a restroom. I knew every gas station within a ten-mile radius of my home.
“I’m incontinent and it’s affecting my quality of life,” I finally admitted, sitting a little taller, proud to voice the truth. “Can I hang up now?” he asked, unfazed by my confession. “Whatever,” I replied, rewarding myself with the other half of the Oreos and reminding myself, “Tilt. Inhale. Raise. Squeeze. Release.” I had to switch from milkshakes to ice cream cones, though.
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