Mumbod: Let it all hang out

I rocked up to my gyno, sure that I should be seeing the butt doctor instead.

I’m in the half reclined chair with my legs in the stirrups. My period started approximately fifteen minutes ago, so this is already embarrassing enough, then she tells me to push as though I was having a baby or poo. Immediately she can see the problem, and wants to show me too.

She whips out a mirror and there’s my shmoo staring back at me. I’m not terribly impressed by what I see, it’s not an attractive beast, but she compliments me on how good everything looks. I don’t have scar tissue or any other exterior post-childbearing signs, impressive for someone with three vaginal births under her belt. Woo, go me!

Then she gets a long q-tip to use as a pointer. “Look here.” Okay. “Now push.”

Holy Fucking God, I’m going to vomit.

“That’s your bladder,” she explains, still pointing to the pink anomaly now bulging out of my vaginal opening.

Though she’s still talking and trying to get me to look, I can’t hear her. I’m desperately trying not to spew. “That’s not supposed to be there…” my mind vaguely registers her words. I take one last look, because I have to, and everything I already knew but didn’t want to admit clicked into place.

For years I haven’t been able to tell if my bladder is full. I’ll pee, but ten minutes later I’ll be able to pee again. I feel like my bladder is in sections, and I can only empty them one at a time, stopping in between. Things don’t feel the same when I put a tampon in.

But, like, if I had prolapse surely my husband would have noticed. Surely the lady who gave me my pap smear a couple of weeks ago would have said something?!

With one of my biggest fears staring me in the face I got my pants on, calmly discussing my Thinx period undies with my doctor; chatting about environmental concerns like my world wasn’t shattering. I felt lost and ashamed.

Back in the main office we talk some more, she draws me some pictures and then takes extra long to find pamphlets and print outs so we can both continue pretending like I’m not crying. Somehow she knows if we acknowledge it, I’ll fall to pieces.

I manage to move out of myself, into third person, where the terror can’t get me. I’m just learning about prolapse, specifically cystocele, for a friend. I can breathe.

The most likely reason I’m not able to poop when I eat mock meat and white bread is that when I push, my bladder – which has taken up residence in my vagina – squishes my bowel, causing that trap-door effect I mentioned previously. However, before we decide how to proceed, someone is going to have to go back there and check it out… in case my bowel has prolapsed too.

Referrals and instructions are given, then we talk about my options.

If I were at a point in my life where I no longer menstruated, and I was done having sex, I could get a pessary inserted to hold everything in place. She pulls out this giant plastic ring to show me. I swallow down more tears. “That’s not me.” I manage, unable to summon the humour to tell her I’m not planning on getting to a stage in my life where I stop having sex. Ever. No thank you.

Beyond pessaries, the only options are 1) learning to live with and manage the symptoms, or 2) surgery.

“A lot of women live with this. It’s okay.” She reassures me, as if surgery is more terrifying than living my whole life feeling like I’m still pushing and having to double void. (Double voiding is the euphemism for pee, change positions to move urine into the usable part of your bladder, then pee some more.)

With a solid plan in place I thank her and run away, barely holding it together in the lift, then falling apart outside, waiting for Dear Hart to pick me up. I was so grateful I insisted he take the morning off work to mind the kids instead of getting a sitter. So relieved to get in our car, rather than public transport with my ugly cry face. I howled so hard Artemis was still worried about me a week later.

I’ve come to terms with it now and am determined to remove some of the fear surrounding the process for others. I’m no longer crying, and I’m looking forward to surgery once all my tests are complete, but I still can’t think too hard about it without feeling nauseous.

I still have a long way to go, but thank you from the bottom of my heart for being with me on this journey. If you’re up to it, feel free to share your vagina stories in the comments