Prologue

Every superpower comes with a cost. This the case for comic book heroes and for women. We are called weaker by those who believe that strength is measured by how much you can lift. Measured in blood and pain, strength belongs to women.

Our superpower costs us every month in blood and pain. Our blood is widely considered to be shameful, something to hide. Our cycle of hormones is used to dismiss us when we are critical.

Our superpower threatens us because it’s not entirely in our control. Some of us want no part of it. It has been used to define and trap us. It can cost us our lives, particularly where access to healthcare is limited.

But it is a superpower. At the risk of our bodies, we can produce a new person from the tiniest of seeds.

I want to own my scars and the injuries that will never heal. I feel that injury every day. But blood and pain are not part of the narrative of women.

I wish I could say I undertook the risk knowingly. But I did it blind, because we don’t talk about pregnancy or birth honestly. We don’t talk about vaginas because they are merely placed to put penises. When a baby passes through, they are sanitized to “birth canal.”

My vagina is partially collapsed because the trauma of pregnancy and birth pulled muscle from bone, removing about half of the support my organs had before. Contrary to what you’d assume given the narrative of the vagina, I don’t miss them during sex. I miss them when I walk, run, jump, lift, and I especially miss them right now, trying to support the weight of a second baby.

This permanent muscle loss happens to something like 15 percent of women who give birth vaginally. That number may well be too low because it’s not the sort of thing women are comfortable talking about. It wasn’t in either of the pregnancy books I read, one of which was given to me by the hospital, nor the postpartum book.

Before I found medical help, I cast about on the internet trying to understand what had happened to me. I was not diagnosed at my six week checkup, even after trying to explain that something was wrong. A lot of what I read, unsurprisingly, was misleading. So I’m writing this now to help other women in the same position to know what is out there.

I am extremely privileged, even for an American mother, with access to a top health system and the flexibility at work to deal with the many appointments it has taken to recover (to the extent possible) and now to deal with a new pregnancy. I’ve spoken to many women with similar problems but without the same access. I want to share what I know beyond my social circle.

Even with access, this area of women’s medicine is still in the process of discovering its best practices, with the causes and risk factors still unclear. For a long time, it was “just what happens”. It’s still in a period of catching up after a history of complacency and silence.

So that’s what this is about. Part guide, part journal. Prolapse diary.

Posts in this series:

Prologue
Part 1: Is this normal?
Part 2: Sometimes you won’t get better
Part 3: Menstruation
Part 4: Pregnant with prolapse
Birth plans and prevention