My Aging Body Feels Leaky A Faucet, And That's On a Good Day
I was in the middle of cooking dinner when I felt a sneeze coming on. Despite my best effort to still my body, engage my core, and tighten my pelvic floor as I’d learned to do in physical therapy, the ahhh-choo came and with it, a little burst of pee.
“Christ,” I said as I rushed to the bathroom.
“Oh no,” my husband replied.
He doesn’t have to ask what happened. I’ve accidentally wet my pants more times than either of us wishes to remember. Lest he try to shame me for it, I repeatedly remind him this is yet another sacrifice my body made so that we could have a family.
I often joke with my daughter that she mistook my bladder for a teddy bear and must have been holding firm to it on her way out. In truth, the shame I experienced post childbirth was not funny. I couldn’t stand up without flood gates releasing, the warm liquid flowing out in a heavy stream I could not control.
Now feels like a good time to point out that new mothers are often inundated with well-intentioned visitors who want to see the baby regardless of what the mother wants or needs, and my involuntary peeing didn’t lend itself to my being a welcoming house guest. Even in solitude, having to sport an adult diaper while struggling to get a newborn to properly latch to my nipple did little to soothe my postpartum anxiety and depression.
Apparently, the bladder slipping down–or nearly out–is one of many childbirth secrets women don’t share with each–like the fact that your hair will fall out in clumps while milk leaks from your nipples in the shower. My doctor said my body would heal.
When my daughter was three months old, I downgraded from diaper to giant pad and tried to go to the gym. In hindsight, I see that pounding on the treadmill probably put undue pressure on my bladder, but I desperately wanted my body back and sacrificed patience in hopes of feeling normal if only for a few miles. Instead, I came home with my head hanging in shame. That’s when I started physical therapy.
Since giving birth to my daughter 13 years ago, I’ve tried everything short of surgery, which ranges from a vaginal pessary to a million kegels an hour to pelvic floor physical therapy and medicine. I’ve seen significant improvement. Most days, I don’t rely on a pad, but I still can’t rely on my bladder’s strength in a battle against a heavy cough or an unexpected sneeze.
As I’ve aged, I’ve had to toss my collection of sexy Hanky Panky thongs and replace them with Bombas briefs just in case I need a pad. What’s most annoying is the inconsistency of it all. The accidents are truly accidents. Not every sneeze results in a run to the bathroom. Sometimes I can jump on the trampoline. Jumping jacks, good. Jumping rope, bad.
However, while walking to dinner with a colleague earlier a few months ago, the night air dried my throat just enough to cause an unexpected cough. But the single cough wasn’t enough to soothe my throat, and I broke into a coughing fit that my bladder couldn’t withstand. I bent over and squeezed my legs together hoping to restrain the stream flooding down my legs. That little Poise didn’t stand a chance.
My colleague, who’s not yet 40, stood worried that something was terribly wrong. I assured her that I wasn’t going to die of anything but utter humiliation, but I also was not going to be able to join our team for dinner. My pants were completely soaked.
When a handful of people on my team asked why I was a no show for dinner, I told them the truth. Surprisingly, Jack Nicholson’s famous line, “You can’t handle the truth!” from A Few Good Men didn’t ring true. My honesty didn’t outwardly seem to make anyone uncomfortable. Being honest helped me to feel less ashamed, so maybe people can handle the truth.