Mumbod: Coping with bad news

I don’t want to write tonight. That’s how you know there’s a problem. A Miriam never doesn’t want to write. But frankly, I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself.

My women’s physio appointment was this morning. She’s great. Honestly, I’ve been so lucky with all the doctors I’ve seen through this process. I know a lot of women aren’t taken seriously and they struggle to get care, which makes me both sad and infuriated. But on this journey, I’ve really lucked out.

If you’ve never been to the women’s physio, it’s kind of like going to the chiropractor, except you don’t wear pants. That’s how I explained it to Elen anyway, she thinks it’s a great show. At least, I console myself, she won’t grow up with a fear of doctors. Won’t be embarrassed to take her pants off for examinations.

Today my physio and I talked about the big things, how gym is affecting my pelvic floor, pessaries, and what I’m dealing with long term.

She’s like “When you feel the bulge, do you push it back in?”

“Yes,” I reply, “and if I invert, everything slides back into place and I don’t have a bulge at all.”

She gives me the look.

Apparently, that’s the kind of thing that tells your physio you have far too much structural damage to repair through simple exercise. She can teach me all sorts of useful things like how to have painless sex, and to not wet myself when I sneeze. But she can’t get my bladder to stay up. Not today. Not ever.

We spoke more about pessaries. She can’t fit me for one; I’ll have to see a private physio for that. (My main physio is “bulk billed” – for you non-Aussies, that’s means I don’t pay for it, the Government does.) She says it’s not expensive. I feel like half the city has had their hand in my vag already.

If you remember this post, you’ll know the idea of vaginal doughnut doesn’t thrill me, so I asked her to be honest with me. “Is there ever a future you can envision where I won’t need it anymore?”

I like to think her expression was sadness, not pity. But it was a no. If I want to live the full and active life I expect from myself, it’s going to be with a big lump of plastic inside me. Rightio. We both did the swallow hard and blink rapidy thing. I thanked her.  Walked my kid out to the desk to make my next appointment. Smiled. Got my new exercises written out. Went shopping. Talked to my sister, Harlequin Fox, via messenger on the bus. Just told her the facts, and didn’t feel anything. No one is surprised by this information, least of all me.

Saw my other sister, Black Swan, at the park. Had coffee. Everything was good.

Until I destroyed dinner. I don’t know how that happened. I’ve made WFPB mac and cheese about a zillion times. But it was awful. Wash-this-sauce-off-and-reuse-the-pasta awful. (If you don’t know that story, feel free to ask.)

So I messaged Dear Hart that he should pick up some fried rice on the way home. He was like “Is there leftover spaghetti? I’ll just eat that.”

I cried. And cried and cried. I’m crying again writing this. I didn’t want to throw together a sandwich or eat leftover pasta from the fridge, and I certainly didn’t want to eat take-away by myself like some sucker that can’t cook, while he reheats what he made over the weekend. Couldn’t live.

At some point I realised it wasn’t about the rice.

He came home and held me while I cried a whole bunch more, shielding me so the kids couldn’t see how messed up I was. And he got us both take-away. Now they’re in bed, and I should be working. But I don’t want to write tonight. I’m going to go to bed and cry. Tomorrow I will be strong again.

Tomorrow I will book more appointments. My gyno, and a private physio if my gyno can’t fit this pessary.  And we will talk about surgery. What kind of native tissue repair she can offer? How much time off parenting will that entail? What’s the wait-list like? Will this destroy my sex life? Will it cost money? What’s the change of recurrence?

I will get more information. I will do my exercises. I will be pro-active. And I will write, tomorrow.

But tonight I’m taking time off, just to cry, and I don’t feel the least bit guilty.

Miriam Cumming is the mother of three beautiful goddesses and a face-slapping cat named Sylvanas. She lives to entertain, educate, and remove stigmas through humour and honesty. If you thought this was cool, you might like to check out her Instagram.