PELVIC FLOOR PERILS
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My beautiful, young niece, Sarah, is a physical therapist and nationally known for treating women's pelvic floors.
I thought you had to go to Home Depot to find someone who specialized in flooring. Boy was I wrong.
Late last summer, Sarah and I were at a family reunion, and after a few too many drinks and my sharing a few too many personal details with her, she told me I should go see a pelvic floor specialist. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I had no idea where the pelvic floor was located, but I promised her I'd call someone to help me with mine.
A few days later, I began my search for the perfect pelvic floor specialist. I didn't want to fool around and pick just anyone because Sarah had warned me that the person I chose would violate me in ways I never suspected. I decided a Boston-trained graduate with 20+ years of experience was a good bet.
The next day, I picked up the phone and scheduled an appointment with my newest medical ally, Elizabeth. But I would have to wait 6 weeks to get in. My first thought was: wow, this lady must be really great if she commands that long a wait. I felt very self-righteous at having found her (even though it was my niece, Sarah, who gave me her name). My second thought was: wow, the pelvic floor business must really be booming! Where have I been while this whole new phenomenon was taking off?
Clearly, the word is out. Women are finally talking about things that have plagued them for generations, like constipation, bladder control issues, and painful sex. And we're doing it at times other than "girls' nights out" with margaritas in our hands. We're tackling these problems because, for the first time, we're finally being told there are solutions. This is big.
At my first appointment, Elizabeth, didn't disappoint, either in talking me through the issues associated with my pathetic pelvic floor or in conducting her physical examination. A lot of tests took place. At least there were no electrodes. For the first time, I understood why my husband jokes about his physician, whom he calls "Dr. Fingers," asking him to "look to the side and cough." I thought about Chevy Chase's famous line in Fletch, when he asks, "you using the whole fist there, are you Doc?"
By the end of my 60 minute appointment, Elizabeth and I were close friends. Very close friends. We were on much more than a first name basis. She recommended that I buy a Squatty Potty, and sent me on my way. As I left her office I realized that, after 30 years, I was being thrown back into potty training. But this time it was my own, not my sons'. How sad was that? I felt like the definition of a pelvic floor loser.
I had an hour's drive home, and it took everything I had not to stop and do some therapeutic clothes shopping. But I just couldn't bear taking my pants off again. If and when I did, I knew I would be immediately transported back to Elizabeth's exam table, lying on a sterile, thin layer of white, crinkly paper. And to the thought of Vaseline. I ran the risk of being stuck in a Marshall's dressing room, traumatized. So, without further delay, I kept driving.
Three days later, I had my second appointment. This time, Elizabeth and I skipped the foreplay, and got right to business. She asked me to flex and relax muscles in places I didn't know existed. It was Kegels on steroids. Here's an insight from the experience: it's impossible to relax when a complete stranger's hand is in a latex glove, despite that stranger's calm voice encouraging you to do so.
After 45 minutes of "special" time together, Elizabeth reassured me that my pelvic floor showed hope of becoming "coordinated," but I nonetheless felt worse. Not only did I still not know where my pelvic floor was, but I now had to deal with the fact that it had multiple parts, all of which had to somehow come into sync. While still on the exam table, I envisioned the Olympic synchronized swimming team, in their lovely outfits, kicking around in the water, and working together to provide a magical performance. My heart sank. I knew I didn't have an Olympic-caliber pelvic floor; I would be lucky if mine made the field league. But I committed to five more appointments.
And so my adventure continues. I still have hope that my pelvic floor will come into line, so Sarah and I can talk about jewelry, or puppies, or something equally innocuous during our next family reunion in August.
In the interim, however, I've resigned to the fact that there's no possible way that Elizabeth can provide me with ordinary moments that will make my life (on her exam) table extraordinary. Some things are just impossible on the wrong side of a latex glove.
