Of all the things I pictured blogging about when I set up this site, pelvic organ prolapse wasn’t one of them. In fact, it has been one of my only ‘truths’ that I’ve kept silent about for so long. It’s become very acceptable to share the dry-humored truths of motherhood; the glass of wine to get through the kids’ dinner time without imploding, hiding in the loo for thirty seconds peace, the unshaven legs, the relentless exhaustion… But this – my most private part, the ‘proof’ of my femininity and sexuality, broken – I just couldn’t seem to find the ‘funny’.
In hindsight I’d always been a fitness junkie and although for too many years I didn’t think it, I’d pretty much always had a healthy, lean, attractive figure. As I moved into my twenties I decided running was my ‘next big thing’. I’d always been envious of those early morning runners out pounding the streets, mentally unwinding as the miles racked up under foot. So after moving to the craziness that is NYC I got into running in a big way.
Exercise had always been my release. Nothing felt better than pushing my limits, drenched in sweat, buzzing with endorphins. And the more emotionally challenging life became, the harder I pushed. It was my outlet, my way of coping. It was my healing.
Along came baby boy number 1. The labour was long (3 days to be precise…) but somehow nothing I couldn’t handle. With gas and air and 2 paracetamol I pushed him out and all seemed well. In fact, people couldn’t seem to praise my natural birth enough. But the truth was, as the weeks passed and both the physical swelling and the inevitable insanity that new motherhood brings started to fade, I knew something wasn’t ‘right’.
I told my mum; I told the midwife; I told the GP at my 6 week check; I tried telling my no-nonsense husband. Nobody seemed too fussed. Apparently this was the (unspoken) ‘part and parcel’ of the miracle that is giving birth and things would settle. But it didn’t settle. It got worse. I’d gone back to running, desperately trying to chase the ‘old me’, pre-baby, pre-marriage. I ran and ran and knew something was wrong. I must have mentioned it over the next year at least five times to various GPs – each time met with blank looks and empty ‘healing takes time’ replies. And so I stopped talking about it, to anyone. I stored up every fear and embarrassing, worrying sensation and shut my mouth.
By the time I was a few months into my second pregnancy I couldn’t walk for more than ten minutes at a time. Going shopping meant one shop and straight back to the car. I stopped taking my son to the park. I had to sit at a stool in the kitchen to cook dinner. There was no mistaking it, something was very wrong. I felt like my insides were falling out of me and I didn’t know who to turn to.
After consulting with my confidant, Dr Google, I understood I had a prolapse. Panic gripped me as I trawled through womens’ horror stories, their realities of how the life they had once led cut short. Surely not, this wasn’t me. I was 30 years old, fit, healthy. My cupboards were crammed full with Nike workout outfits. I looked fine. I couldn’t be broken…
But I was.
I went to the hospital and refused to leave until I had been examined and sure enough it was confirmed. Devoid of tact or sensitivity, the doctor told me that it would probably only worsen with my impending labour, that having more children wasn’t advised and that inevitably surgery would be required ‘to fix’ me; the chances of it improving were slim to none; prolapse, apparently, was a ‘one-way street’.
Six months pregnant and with my very-active not-quite-two year old waiting at home for me, I sat in the waiting room digesting the situation, reeling through the impacts on my life, my relationship, my confidence as a woman, my dream of having a big family. I’d never run around Disneyland with my kids, or teach them to play sports – I’d be a burden, somehow less of a woman, a disappointment for my husband. I knew I was still very fortunate; thank God it wasn’t something worse, an incurable illness, the dreaded c-word. But I felt so incredibly alone. And more than that, I was so ashamed.
My family were beyond wonderful and my husband supported my choices. I chose to give birth through elective section to my second baby boy and observed, with private chagrin, the faint disdain people seemed to have for my choice against a natural delivery. I recovered well, found an excellent women’s health physio and read every article and piece of evidence-based research I could find online – I became an expert on pelvic organ prolapse. I changed my posture, modified my life, researched and created the most effective rehabilitation programme and with a grateful heart am blessed to say that I’ve proven the doctors 100% wrong!
I don’t run anymore but instead have a range of bespoke classes that hit my and others' ‘exercise highs’ without compromising the core. It’s taken even longer to let go of the old me, to first accept the changes that motherhood and getting older bring, and to love, appreciate and celebrate my body again and to truly cherish the stronger version of who I have become.
As cliched as it sounds, it forced me to re-evaluate my identity; it reshuffled the pack of my life. And with a grateful heart I can play and chase my kids, walk for miles along the beach, jump in the waves, sweep my babies into my arms when they are in pain, work out until my muscles burn. Not only that, but it gave birth to one of the most fulfilling and exciting careers - my RiConnect Women's Fitness & Wellbeing company.
Statistically I am very lucky. Emotionally, physically, I’m stronger than I ever have been and it has led me to meet the most amazing people and walk down new paths that bring me so much joy.
I don’t know why I want to share my story now. Maybe it’s because nobody else does. When everything else seems so un-taboo nowadays, this still hides in the shadows. And it shouldn’t. Whatever we keep hidden ends up destroying us. Maybe it’s taken this long for my healing to really take place. But here it is. I hope it helps someone, anyone, who is in a similar place. And thanks for listening.