Recently, my phone alerted me to a message on Facebook from an acquaintance, whom I’ll call Jessica. I had not talked to her in four years. I almost deleted the message, but the first line caught my attention:“Uh hey, Devon. How are you? I know we haven’t talked in, like, ages, but I, um…I need help, and you’re the first person I thought to ask about this….”
I settled in for a question about what pelvic floor prolapse feels like. This isn’t new. If there’s one thing that has been consistent in my 36 years on this planet, it’s that people come to me for an ear to hear and a heart to feel. I’ve become a resident expert on UI among my friends, who know that there is no such thing as TMI for me. If something is happening in their underpants that shouldn’t be, I usually know about it.
Jessica had felt pressure in her pelvis and noticed a slight bulge in the area of her perineum. She was also feeling a lot of frequent urges to use the restroom, but she found herself struggling each time she went, no matter if it was number one or two.
I knew how it felt to be in her shoes: scared because I had no idea what was happening (I experienced my second prolapse months after my first prolapse surgery), in discomfort and pain, totally betrayed by the failings of my body. After all, I had found my uterus coming out while in the shower, so I know what a mind-bend all of this can be.
I invited Jessica to call me. I could hear the trepidation in her voice. I did my best to soothe her fears about calling her doctor. I told her that she isn’t alone, that she could call me for anything she needed, and gave her the name of my amazing urogynecologist. I even offered to accompany her to her appointments if she needed, or to grab a cup of tea after she went, knowing that the world of pelvic floor prolapse is a lonely one a lot of the time.
Often, when someone comes to me regarding UI and other inconveniences, they’re embarrassed. We’re adults, we’ve been toilet trained for decades, and all of a sudden, we can’t control the one thing we are taught is the most important to control. I remember the kid who got picked on for peeing his pants all the time in second grade, and when this started to be my reality in my mid-thirties, I was absolutely mortified. My friends who confide in me have the same concerns. No one wants to wear pantiliners or adult incontinence underwear, and heaven forbid something not be strong enough to hold our leaks!
It’s also easy to be afraid when your body starts betraying you, and UI can feel like the ultimate betrayal. So many people worry about the options they have to manage it. They worry about how long it may last; for many, like me, it’s going to be a lifelong ordeal.
As the UI whisperer, I have found that the best way to fight fear is with some understanding and a lot of humor. UI doesn’t discriminate. From pre-op preparations to post-op healing tips (get up and walk as soon as you can, your body will thank you), I talk about everything with everyone in as much detail and with as many laughs as possible. It seems to put people at ease if they know that I have been through it and have made it out intact (and with an additional parting gift of mesh inside me!).
When I was going through this at first, I was quite literally going it alone. No one I knew had dealt with UI on the scale that I was, thanks to those falling-out bits of mine, so I had no one to turn to with questions and fears. Now I believe in living my life as the person I wish I’d had to talk to and trust when I needed it. If one person can benefit from the ordeals I have had to face, it’s worth it for me to share my stories and advice.
I wish UI wasn’t something so uncomfortable for women to discuss—it’s uncomfortable enough to live with! But I urge everyone dealing with pelvic floor prolapse or other UI-related issues to find someone to talk to, confide in unabashedly, and let you know that you’re not alone. It could be a wise friend, a counselor, a therapist, your neighbor, or a stranger online who just listens. Find that person, and if you’re comfortable with it, be that person for others. We call our life stories “narratives” because they’re stories to be told, narrated in our unique voices. Use that voice. Someone somewhere needs it, and it may surprise you how healing it can be to help others too.
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