I climbed onto the treatment table in the home office of my new pelvic floor therapist, settling under the worn, floral sheets. Naked from the waist down, except for my socks, I relaxed my hips and exhaled, steadying myself for the appointment. I’d gone there seeking relief for pain during sex, brought on by menopause, medically induced by adjuvant breast cancer treatments at 37.
After a few minutes, the practitioner, an older, petite woman with a soothing voice and soft hands, knocked on the door. I told her it was okay to enter, and she did. After taking a seat in the chair beside me, she quickly reviewed my medical history.
Then, she asked for my consent to perform a physical exam, using a pelvic wand. I closed my eyes and nodded. I watched her move to the end of the table, push the sheet up to my waist, and help my legs into a butterfly pose.
I noticed my body softening, letting go of the vigilance I carried into most medical settings. A few moments later, I felt the pain, like shards of glass breaking inside me. I must have let out a sound because she stopped immediately.
She spent the rest of the appointment gently massaging my lower abdomen and working through trigger points in my pelvis. Before leaving me alone to get dressed, she turned and said, “Don’t worry. It gets easier over time.” Her words, meant to reassure, landed like a weight.
I thought of all the prior moments in my life I’d been told something similar—to push through my discomfort, endure the pain until it receded or became easier to ignore. Suddenly, panic gripped my chest, and I jolted upright. Dressing hurriedly, I shoved my bra into my purse.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
