I worked up the courage to take a peek a few weeks after giving birth to my second child, a 10-pound, 7-ounce, boy with a large Irish head who so kindly caused my second perineal tear in less than two years. I was sore and stitched up, so taking out the handheld mirror in the midst of postpartum healing was a bit foolish. Still, I felt like something was wrong down there and wanted to know what was going on. I took a look, saw a protruding bulge, and immediately freaked out.
I started to sob and imagine a lifetime of pain and embarrassment. I told my husband I was “ruined”! Then, I Googled. Google told me I had pelvic organ prolapse, which confirmed my suspicions that I was a broken, deformed woman. My life as I knew it was over, or so I thought.
That was almost eight years ago, and luckily none of my dire predictions have come true. I’m no longer an emotional wreck when talking about my prolapse, likely because I’m no longer in the fog of new motherhood, which included taking care of a newborn and toddler while also healing from a traumatic birth experience.
However, that discovery was scary not just because of fatigue and new-mom hormones. My terror was also a result of simple ignorance. I had taken months of birthing classes, read all the “what to expect” books, and had given birth twice, yet I was shockingly clueless about childbirth injuries.
So when I took out that mirror, still swollen and too sore to walk properly, I had no idea what to expect, but I knew seeing a bulge was not normal. What I didn’t know was what to do about it
I’m the type of person who likes information, but my panicked post-birth Googling was the first time I heard the term “pelvic organ prolapse.” It hadn’t come up in my months of research during my first pregnancy, wasn’t mentioned after my first difficult birth, and never appeared on my radar even as I peed myself while vomiting throughout my second pregnancy. I didn’t know permanent pelvic floor injury was a possibility; most of my pre-birth anxiety was about having a c-section. I was supposed to be relieved I had given birth vaginally, even if my two large children born 19 months apart had ripped me up while getting stuck on the way out.
So when I took out that mirror, still swollen and too sore to walk properly, I had no idea what to expect, but I knew seeing a bulge was not normal. What I didn’t know was what to do about it.
At my six-week checkup, I swallowed my embarrassment and asked my midwife what was wrong with my vagina, but she seemed unconcerned, probably because she had examined me while I lay supine, a position in which gravity was my friend. I should have been relieved by her nonchalance, but I suspected she was wrong, so I kept taking out that mirror, noticing the bulge that wouldn’t budge, feeling a heaviness that wasn’t there before.
I eventually made an appointment with a gynecologist who finally confirmed I did indeed have prolapse of the uterus and bladder, a result of permanent damage to support structures during my difficult pregnancies and deliveries, as well as unlucky genetics. At 31 I was told by multiple doctors I’d need surgery someday—a when, not an if, statement.
Over the years I’ve made a tenuous peace with my prolapse, mostly because I’ve advocated for myself. I asked for pelvic floor physical therapy, which didn’t fix me, but did inform and empower me. I asked for pessaries to use during exercise, even after one old-school doctor told me they were only for older women. I found a different doctor who agreed to fit me, telling me she wished more younger women were proactive and comfortable with their bodies. I read credible resources about prolapse. I even went on to have another child, but worked with an OB-GYN who recommended a c-section so my baby wouldn’t get stuck and cause further injury to both of us.
I’ve yet to have surgery. Most days I feel surprisingly good. Sometimes I even forget about my prolapse—that is until my children ask me to jump on a trampoline. I am not “ruined,” but neither am I fixed. Although I can lift weights, do circuits, go for long walks, and even do some jumping jacks, I’ve also accepted that some sports are no longer feasible. Accepting limitations isn’t failure; it’s prudent.
Over the years, as age has caused the shape and strength of my body to fluctuate, my mind-set has steadily improved. I’m not glad I have pelvic organ prolapse, but I am glad I’ve learned to accept my body, limitations and all. I’m like so many other moms with invisible injuries who get up every day and make it work. I’ve decided being a little broken doesn’t make me ruined; it makes me tough.