I thought childbirth was amazing. I felt like an Amazon, pushing out these mysterious children. It was long and chunky, with smooth, chunky skin that was so soft under my hands. It was a miracle of world creation to see a whole human being unfold from my womb. But another shocking reality is torn flesh, lumpy stitches, burning urine and painful defecation. It was damage to internal organs, but I didn’t think it would last long.
More than 30 years ago, when I gave birth to my two children, I was a fan of my public hospital’s birthing center’s policy of “24-hour care and then go home.” I thought I would only need to stay in the hospital for a night or two before rushing home with my newborn. There was no point in medicalizing childbirth. After all, it was a natural process. There was little awareness or planning for the time needed for the body to heal and repair.
I thought if I could do this, I could do anything. When I returned home with my oldest son, I refused to cancel a dinner with a friend who was staying over. Yes, I said, it was an easy birth and how lucky am I? Of course I’m fine. No problem. I don’t know what kind of damage will happen later.
I didn’t know how much rest my birthing body needed. I didn’t know that the elders understood this. Lying down is a tradition for a reason. I thought asking for help was an outdated concept of femininity. I didn’t know that if I just lay down and stayed at home, my body would recover just a little bit more. There is humility in rest, that is, there is humility in finitude.
For the past 30 years, I have been seeing a physical therapist who specializes in women’s health. For me, this is a euphemism for pelvic floor health. And pelvic floor health is a euphemism for muscle breakdown and organ sagging, and it’s also a euphemism for the control you didn’t know you were giving up when you had children.
When I reach my 40s, comedian Judith Lucey says to me: Let’s lay out the carpet! ”
I once asked my midwife why she thought my contractions were so intense and painful. She looked at me without blinking and said, “To prepare you for what’s about to happen.”
Now, 20 years after those babies and in my 50s after years of Pilates and physical therapy, I am having surgery. My prolapsed vaginal wall is lined with mesh, tightened and pushed in. When the surgeon showed me the mesh sample, I looked away. Who wants to have something like Flywire implanted into their vaginal walls? It turns out I’m one of the lucky ones. Many women have experienced great pain from this mesh, leading to lawsuits and class action lawsuits.
Formed the belief that not being able to hold a part of one’s body tightly is a personal flawThe surgeon is technically excellent, but his communication skills are poor. When the patient called the hospital room, a friendly receptionist hung up on him. Therefore, my Women’s Health Physical Therapist will be my guide in preparing for and following up on my surgery. This physical therapist was an early leader in the field of pelvic floor recovery, and my questions made sense to her. I secretly call her the “cheerful coach.” She is colorful like a rainbow parakeet.
During the surgery, in addition to the mesh work, a sling is inserted to prevent the uterus from collapsing into the vagina. My surgeon also recommended a hysterectomy, but a conversation with my GP changed my mind.
“If you’re going to do keyhole surgery, how do you remove the uterus?” I ask.
she says: “They chop it up inside you and extract it bit by bit.”
I decide not to do this. No, I say, don’t take her. Please support her.
So they put in a sling. I imagine it as a kind of hammock where my uterus can put its feet up and relax after the monthly preparations, the work of carrying the child, and the terrifying effort of coaxing the baby out of the pool. But why would I wait until I’m in my 50’s to give her time to turn her legs?
Women are doing exercises to strengthen their pelvic floor. Photo: SeventyFour/Getty Images
When I asked Coach Cheerful how she would describe the surgical intervention, she simply called it “pelvic reconstruction.” This feels much better than the misery embodied in the word escape and the idea of embedded flywire. Prolapse syndrome always causes a feeling of defeat, as if you have fallen and are no longer able to keep yourself intact.
I will be on bed rest for 6 weeks after surgery under the supervision of a physical therapist. No lifting or weight-bearing required. There is nothing heavier than a kettle of water. The rest makes sense. It gives the best chance for healing. And after secretly dreading its enforcement, I’m enjoying it. Who would have thought that there would be so much space during the day to observe the changing light, the movement of the leaves on the trees, and the pedestrians on the street? Who knew that you could sleep deeply, absorb long silences and live in another world told by audiobooks?
Rest helps. It doesn’t cure everything, but it helps. I wish I had known that when I had my child. For me, the compulsion to keep going jeopardized my chances of truly recovering from childbirth. I wish I had a way of life that would allow me to respect the job of giving birth. It took me far too long to unravel the story of always running out of time and living life with a sense of speed, and to stop instead of collapsing from exhaustion.
There is no recurrence or further prolapse. My private parts now seem to be back to normal. I am grateful for the skilled surgery and proud of my recovery. I’m back to Pilates and taking weekly classes that help me strengthen my core strength and integrate a new awareness of posture and breathing. And all this will help.
And then comes the obstacle. It is a weakness that makes you feel like there is no help.
Because now that I’m in my 60s, new problems have arisen. Faeces will leak. It’s not a huge amount, it’s just a teaser. Sometimes hidden dirt, sometimes small pebbles. This happens when I least expect it. There is no warning, no urgency, no pressure. You have a bowel movement, think it’s over, and continue with your daily life and move around.
But my body isn’t done yet.
Leaks occur more often every week or two, rather than every few months. My physical therapist will suggest ways to manage this. I’m wearing a disposable menstrual liner, but I’m concerned about the smell. I asked my doctor if he had ever treated anyone with fecal incontinence. The attending physician shakes his head. lower your gaze. I don’t like feeling special. It doesn’t look like this.
I asked Coach Cheerful about shame. Why do I feel so frustrated? More than once over the years, medical professionals have found me blaming myself for obvious deficiencies in my body. “This is not your fault,” they said. But as much as I listened to them and felt their compassion, that default setting had a huge impact.
The cheerful coach explains: “When we lived in caves, wild animals could smell you if you were incontinent. You were a danger to the tribe.”
Feeling of relief: This shame belongs to the reptilian part of the brain.
One in 25 women experience fecal incontinence. Photo: Peter Daisley/Getty Images
Through a mutual friend, I met a woman who had experienced a much more distressing episode than my little embarrassment. She says the worst things to me. In an ancient town while traveling through Europe, she could not find a toilet. Eventually, on her way to the small bathroom at the back of the public bar, she completely lost her bowel movements. She describes it as the most harrowing experience of her life.
We talk about fear, about our ancestors and what happened to their bodies. I wonder if my problem will get worse and what will happen to me.
And none of my friends talk about fecal incontinence. It is the last bastion, the last line of demarcation of body shaming. The only place I’ve heard fecal incontinence mentioned is in the context of elderly care, where it’s spoken with a wrinkling of the nose.
However, 1 in 25 women will experience it. That’s 4% of us.
Is it a betrayal to tell the hard truth that childbirth can damage a mother’s body in ways that can never be fully repaired? How can I just talk about the wonders of new humans?
Should I tell you or not? Is it a conspiracy of silence or a wise withholding?
That’s why I thought long and hard before telling my daughter. Eventually I told her exactly what was going on. She is considered. she is thoughtful She asks great questions. I felt relieved, both for her and for myself. Because I was embarrassed and I thought she would be ashamed of me too. She said calmly and respectfully: “Could you help me a little more?”
I am being examined by a colorectal specialist. colon. Rectum. These words sound like real words. Colon: Very slippery, like a python, like a raw sausage. And the rectum is downright ugly.
In the operating room, this surgeon inserted a small balloon into my back to test the responsiveness of my sacral nerves. When you inflate a balloon, you can feel its movement. This is a good sign. Then I will be put under anesthesia and he will examine my rectum and colon.
Then, experts explain what the study found. My sphincter muscles have lost their elasticity. He is sorry that he cannot give me something new. That’s not a funny joke.
My question is, did he find anything to explain the lack of warning?
“No,” he says. “Everything is normal. There is nothing wrong with the sacral nerves.”
The conversation has ended. You don’t need to do anything.
I am a rubber band willing to stretch in all directions until the spring is gone and only slack is left. Damn people who don’t bounce. That’s not me. I will not become that worn-out useless rubber band.
I ended up finding a physical therapist who specialized in fecal incontinence. Yes, you need to know that these people exist. The treatments are very busy and you may have to wait several months. I wish I could have told her that my colorectal specialist referred me to her. He didn’t.
This physical therapist wastes no time and asks very specific questions. She doesn’t talk much. Things are narrowed down to the essentials. I think of her as a talented angel. She’s busy, but there’s a distilled calm to the words she speaks and a careful eye contact.
she says: “Empty bowels don’t leak.” She would show me how to empty my bowels.
Regularly.
There are dietary considerations and hydration needs. There is a way to ingest a tasteless and painless roughage called psyllium husk. There is a matter of routine and rhythm.
Her advice works. Occasionally leaks may occur, but they are infrequent and not too painful.
When I reached out to a woman who had a harrowing experience, she said: I learned how to keep my bowel movements regular and empty. ” She told another friend the worst story. “I ended up laughing because it was so bad. People were banging on the door while I was trying to clean the bathroom!”
“I can’t say I’m glad I have children, I love them too much. I’m lucky to have the privilege of being a mother, and becoming a grandmother is full of surprises.” Photo: d3sign/Getty Images
Stories about the effects of childbirth can easily fall into the “you can do it” brand of athletic ability. Vulnerabilities are only mentioned as something to be overcome. I have formed the belief that not being able to hold on to any part of my body is a personal flaw. If I had done enough pelvic floor muscle training, things would have been different.
But this shame does not belong to my body. This shame belongs to a society built around exploitation. It is an unholy truth that just as we respect the Earth and do not allow it to be replenished, the body itself is not allowed to rest. Most of us fear silence.
But I don’t want to put it together too neatly. I know I have a nasty vulnerability, and while I may be able to manage it now, as I get older, I’ll be less capable. I cringe when I think about the impact on those around me.
I’m so happy to have children, I love them so much. I’ve been lucky enough to have the privilege of being a mother, but becoming a grandmother is full of surprises. Again, there is a cascading joy as you witness a new person awakening to life.
For now, I am grateful for the sweet place that exists between people. A place of belonging and laughter, a place of intimacy, mercy and grace. I know that laughter can sometimes break through the shame that is projected onto women’s bodies. Shame doesn’t belong to me, but it still hangs there, untold, in stories no one wants to tell.
