The picture is of Blue Whales, whose sexual organs are so discretely packed away it is hard to tell them apart. It was taken at the Natural History Museam aka The Dinosaur Museum as Spider-boy marvelled at the enormous whale model and I, as was alas always the way for me at school, sought out the cheeky and rude bits of science and remembered them. That was a good day, a trip with the boys, us striving for the family life we want in this great monstrous metropolis.
Posting the picture was slightly childish and I suspect my point would have been better illustrated with a picture of an egg – ergonomic, smooth, protective, and likely to pop out much faster and with less damage (chickens do it daily without stitches, no?). Although I’d stand by the sentiment that the long-term fall out from birth injuries is the biggest pile of cock going so I’ve repeated the picture for you.
Anyway after all my harping about straight talking I felt bad about the silence. Fanny physio was fine, really, as it always is. I chatted about how it was going, squeezed and had the strength of my muscles assessed and rated.
It is embarrassing. Not because my snatch is on display and I’m discussing wetting myself despite being a 33 year old woman – I steel myself against that by pretending it isn’t happening. No, it is embarrassing as I am hugely competitive and find a body so wanting when it comes to strength and tone such a drag. I’m also squeamish about the scatological – which I cover up by being rude and frank. When the physio referred to the ‘bulge’ of a (shhh – my) prolapse I nearly passed out with shame, though I’d happily drop the c—bomb in public.
The physio said in terms of muscle strength I have moved up from 2 out of 5, to 2.5 out of 5. Shit progress, I feel, for three months hard and fast clenching but she said I’m being hard on myself. She added, after I explained I couldn’t handle that kind of failure, that when I reach the illusive ‘3’ I’ll be able to lift my older son without fear and do other Herculean tasks. Running for buses, no less, which will be a bloody relief as it really is Hobson’s Choice: be late, or be sodden. Her encouragements were not condescending, she’s a sparky bright button well aware of how upsetting it all is. It was just the truth, and, I guess, her way of saying a form of normality is on the horizon. She added: ‘Thatwoman if you weren’t in trouble, you wouldn’t be here’, which, I guess, is also true.
In SPD terms she tells me to hang on in there, watch I don’t spread my legs too far (fnaar), and things will improve when hormone levels change. All good(ish) news then, and at least I didn’t piss on her.
I feel a bit sulky (if I’m honest, like a crazy failure). I know I shouldn’t though. Physiotherapy is a long game, after all. I knew that before I got pregnant a second time. I also knew that I would need physio again; there have been no real surprises or shocks.
I know that underground at EGA there is no phone reception but there are decent and hard-working NHS professionals who are upfront and clear and encouraging and kind. I also knew there should be a subtitle to the department name reading:No quick fixes here. The crutches and bandages are there to hold you together while the real quiet and slow work takes place in earnest, out of sight. And, for some of you lucky devils, INSIDE YOUR KNICKERS.
And well today, the sun is shining, not metaphorically, not to make the post end neat, but really and like 1976. I am full of Galaxy Counters and rants about sloppy news coverage, midweek, suggesting as an educated middleclass working woman everything* is MY FAULT.
And this, indignation in the heatwave, is better than shame in the shadows. So I’ll take it and move on.
* the plight of the working man, at the very least