Introduction and Part 1 available here.
February.
I’m nervous, so I’m sweaty, and that’s making the annoying and loud paper covering the exam table stick to my skin.
I’m in every woman’s least favourite but most necessary position in the world: Flat on my back, legs in stirrups, dreaded speculum down there.
Dr. M peers over the top of my knee.
“Well,” she says, clearing her throat, and I think Shit, this can’t be good, “I think everything is fine. But I’m not an expert on female anatomy, you understand. I’m a GP. I know generally where everything is supposed to be.”
She points a latex gloved hand to the spot that’s troubling me.
“And I’m not sure what that is.”
She hands me a referral to the obstetrician who delivered Lucy in 2006 (the woman who delivered Alice is a regular doctor who delivers babies).
“I want you to see someone with surgical capabilities,” Dr. M says. The appointment is not until June.
I go hot and cold all at once. My hands are shaking as I strap a screaming Alice into her carseat, and I’m fighting back tears. This is not what I wanted to hear. This is the second medical professional that has mentioned surgery to me in the past three months.
How can this be happening? I am healthy. I had two normal deliveries, neither of which had prolonged pushing (Lucy for just over an hour, Alice 12 MINUTES) or major trauma. I was pretty active during both pregnancies. I hadn’t, however, really done kegels at all in the past four years of pregnancy and post-partum living. Was I ever kicking myself for that now.
Who knew I had such a weak pelvic floor? Sure, I’d have the odd pee leak if my bladder was full and I sneezed. And jumping on a trampoline? Forget it.
But there was no indication that anything like this would happen. I remember reading about the importance of a strong pelvic floor during and after pregnancy, but it was never hammered into me the way I now believe it should for every woman — having babies or not.
There is nothing wrong with the way things are functioning, as can be a big problem when you have a suspected prolapse. I’m going to the washroom fine. I’m not in pain. I just feel like something is there. All up up (down?) in my space. In the morning, it’s not so bad. But at the end of long days lifting my girls, chasing my girls, walking and cooking and standing, I feel like something is going to fall out of me.
A few weeks later, I am in a local walk-in clinic with Alice, who has a gooey, crusty green eye, when a bright yellow brochure catches my attention.
It’s targeted to older women with incontinence issues, but also talks about pelvic floor strengthening, learning proper kegels, lifestyle changes. “You don’t have to live this way” it says, and my hands tighten on the paper in hope.
Vicki is a registered physiotherapist specializing in this area. I never even knew such a person existed.
I make an appointment right away.
We spent the better part of an hour together, discussing my symptoms, my babies, my daily routine. Had anyone mentioned a less invasive approach? Taught you how to exercise? All I’d been told so far was to do kegels (no, no one explained how — I looked it up online), wait a year or until I was done breastfeeding, hope for the best, and maybe have surgery if I couldn’t live with “the best.”
“It is shameful in our country the lack of understand and support the medical community gives,” she says shaking her head in frustration. “I see women all ages, and many your age.”
Relief washes over me. I don’t feel so alone or afraid now.
Vicki says she can’t guarantee everything will go back to normal (“Nothing is ‘normal’ after childbirth,” she says with a smile, and we snicker) but she promises it will get better.
“On a scale of 1-10, how much would it bother you if everything stayed exactly how it is right now?” she asks, pen poised over a chart.
For a long while, I can’t answer. The number is stuck in the back of my throat, and the tears slip silently down my cheeks. I watch as they form dark circles on my jeans, and feel Vicki watching me.
“Eleven,” I whisper. “I feel broken. I hate this. I don’t want to be afraid of sex. I want to run and skip after my girls. I want to live without thinking about this with every step I take.”
Vicki’s hand is on my arm, and she hands me a tissue box.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “We’ll get there.”
To be continued…
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