You can close your eyes…

She looks so relaxed, on the first day of her island holiday. Gently swinging in the hammock, a mug of chai tea cradled in her hands; those eyes are tired, though. She looks outward to the ocean.

It is glassy today, clear as air to look into. If she were out there wading in the shallows she would see fish, lazily cruising in the warm edges of the reef. On the horizon, a solitary white rimmed island marks the separation between water and sky. She saw a whale breach out there earlier this morning. The sum of all these things, warm air, calm seas, chai tea. It is all in stark contrast to her inner world.

She tries to let it all go, all the daily pressure of normal life. All the past. All the words unsaid and things undone. Lists unchecked.  It is hard to relax, and it should be simple. It is hard to carve out time where she can be nothing but herself. But she has, it is here; now, for the next hour or so. She sips on her chai, letting the cinnamon and spices swirl into her senses. The flavours of calm.

She’s not sure if she wants to spend time with herself after all.

Where is she, anyway? Losing herself has happened gradually. Task by task, caring for others. Loving others is a sacrificial pursuit, for women everywhere. Loving them with all she has is a habit of obligation and a daily choice. She didn’t know the cost of it when she signed up, but she knows now. Yet she would have paid anything to have this, have them. This life. And when the fabric of her wears thin and tears into the unwritten contract -of motherhood, of marriage- with hard words, she feels the failure. Sharp. So mean. She never really intends it for them. The words are really for herself. She sighs over it, swinging back and forth in that hammock. She is tired of turning herself inside out to examine it all.

So she walks through all of life in this body; this middle aged vessel of experiences, faded dreams and old philosophies, the mother-wife shell. The girl she also is; so shrouded now, by her roles and responsibilities. She has survived all the things. Her world is secure and her love is strong. Her family are happy. She thinks these thoughts like a mantra of protection. They have made together exactly the life she hoped for, the one she yearned for all those years ago, wishing into her teacups for a family of her own.

Her eyes close and she lets her head sink back against the woven hammock.

There is a woman here on the island, travelling alone. Her husband died three years ago, and since then, she has retraced the steps of all the travels they did together. She watches this woman in the restaurant, alone in her grief at her table for one. She wonders if there will be release when she has completed her solitary itinerary. She wonders if the goodbyes and the remembering are helpful. She wonders if she could be so brave. Life, on her own again. It makes her shiver in the tropical heat. No.

She thinks about her little family, out on the glassy ocean, casting handlines into the water in the hope of bringing home fish. She tries to imagine the joy and horror as they reel in slippery living creatures. It is the first time her children have been fishing. They are having much-yearned-for quality time with their daddy and she is struck by a sudden pang of… what is that? Jealousy?  He’s been so busy lately. He is a great Dad. She chose him for them and that thought makes her feel proud satisfaction. She did that. A gift for their future selves and developing psyches. It was a good choice. She’d choose him all over again, she knows it.

The girl she is, takes a big deep breath and sighs it out into the warm air. She is okay. No crises to avert this afternoon. A small smile contracts her cheeks upward, crinkling the skin by her eyes. So fortunate to be here, this day, in this way, in this place. She aligns her girl and woman selves and blows across her warm tea. Seriously, she thinks. The best way to relax is to stop thinking altogether. She reaches for her headphones and scrolls through until an old favourite fills her consciousness. Yes. You Can Close Your Eyes by James Taylor. Her empty tea cup now nestles in the sand. She drifts out of her messy mind on a tide of chilled harmonies.

She is the picture of relaxation, that woman on the hammock. Eyes closed, headphones on. The late afternoon quiet, deep upon her. Slowly, the tide creeps up the sand and the day sighs to a close. She muses softly about all of her sisters-in-arms, shouldering big burdens and costly contracts of love.

the sun is slowly sinking down
and the moon is slowly rising
so this old world might still be spinning round
and I still love you.
So close your eyes
you can close your eyes, it’s alright
I don’t know no love songs
and I can’t sing the blues, anymore
but I can sing this song
and you can sing this song
when I’m gone

Post Script
James Taylor and Joni Mitchell. It was the soundtrack for my holiday week; for me it is the song of parent to a child, or an adult to themselves. I love it so much.  Have you heard these two singing together before? Happy sigh…

The Embrace

 

Some years ago I came across a seminal video clip that was going gangbusters on social media. I think my cousin, Kylie in Australia posted it. It was made by Taryn Brumfitt. I remember most the way she looked at herself in the mirror. The things she said out loud that sounded like the script I’d had swirling around my own head about my body.  She was talking about the shocking way we look at ourselves as women, and why that has to change. As I watched her clip, the tears began to run down my cheeks. I felt that old familiar despair about my body. I felt shame. That tired dirge within my heart, a deep disappointment weighing down my soul. It had to change.  I added Taryn’s clip to the arsenal of information I had begun to gather around my fledgling body positivity. I’ve thought a lot about this body of mine since then, all the things it has endured. I thought about how truly wonderful it is to be here, in it. This vessel deserves thanks. Not deprecation.  I hugged myself in a long, forgiving, kind-hearted embrace. It was the beginning of this new phase in my life, the start of something brand new. Liking myself exactly as I am (how sad that liking ourselves is almost revolutionary). It’s been liberating!
Thanks Taryn for your part in this shift for me!

 

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A little drawing from my sketchbook of me, embracing myself.

 

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Taryn Brumfitt’s viral social media post.

 

Taryn has since made a full length documentary, EMBRACE, exploring the potent body-ideal saturation of our media and the various ways that affects self image. She discusses the powerful, soul destroying ways we fight the unattainable fight and why we do. Sharing perspectives from a cosmetic surgeon, an anorexic girl, a plus size model, photographers, campaigners, educators, an actor, a public figure, and the general public. The themes and message in her documentary are world-changing.  I urge you to find a screening near you. I hope it will be available soon on DVD. It’s incredible. Last night, I took my daughter and my Aunty to see that documentary. It was a special screening hosted by Meagan Kerr and Monique Doy.  At the end of it, my eleven year old girl hugged me and said “Mummy, everybody needs to see this”.  She’s smart, my girl. She’s right.

 

The documentary was hit by controversy when it was first screened here for the Film Festival. Due to the images of female genitals during one part of the film, it was considered to be sexually graphic and had to be reviewed by the censorship board. The purpose of showing those private parts, was to address a very real problem for young women; asking crucial questions about the rise of labiaplasty among young women. Labiaplasty is surgery to removed the inner labia and create a more ‘streamlined downstairs’ sometimes known as the ‘designer vagina’. Women, especially young women, are clamouring for this surgery because their vulvas don’t look like the ones in pornography. They may not know this is the standard to which they are altering their bodies, but pornography and soft-porn magazines are often the only place women see other women’s vaginas. The proliferation of porn across our internet means young people encounter multiple images of one particular type of vagina (to be technically correct, vulvas). The type fashionable in the porn industry. Waxed or shaven, minimal labial folds. A vagina more stylistically akin to that of a pre-pubescent girl. It’s a sick world, and we wonder why?  Taryn shows a  range of female genitalia to shine a light on the fact we are meant to be unique. In showing realistic, post-puberty vulvas she valiantly attempts damage control. Thankfully, our censorship board watched the film and approved it’s screening. I actually dearly wish that we could make it compulsory in all schools, for girls and boys. But there are some themes that are significant triggers for our youth and it needs to be approached with care.  NB. Suicide, self harm, eating disorders, cosmetic surgery.

 

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Photographer B Jeffrey Madoff

My favourite part of the doco was when Taryn was shooting a special diversity project with New York photographer Bernie Madoff. I’ve been involved with a few diversity shoots, bringing up the rear (pun intended) and representing women over 40 and over size 18. I adore shoots with other women where encouragement and acceptance are part of the scene. It’s a rare thing in this world, for women to accept and encourage other women, just as they are, for being who they are, not just what they look like. It’s intoxicating. It’s a force I want to see more of in this world. Not just for me, but for the generations coming through. Empowered women empower women and when they do, happiness… wholeness, happens.  I’ve been involved in education, the disability sector, and now the plus size fashion world. Advocacy seems to be part of my purpose. But I can’t help wondering if all of the disparate sectors of my life, of my society, are together the thing that lights my fire. Diversity.

 

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Shoot for Euphoria Design’s “Confidence is Beautiful” campaign. 2016.

I want to see more fully grown women fronting women’s fashion brands and having a stronger presence in the media. Women of various ages, various stages, body types, abilities, ethnicities, backgrounds and gender histories. I want the fashion world to give us all credit for wanting more than the one type of ‘woman’ (girl) we see everywhere. I want more representation, not just because I love modelling and I am not a typical model, but because it matters for our young ones coming up. It matters for them to see that women are diverse. It matters for them to see that they have a place.  Here, with us. The women of the village. If we don’t show them they have value, that their image is beautiful, how will they ever embrace the realities of growing upward, outward, and older?

 

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Shoot for Autograph Curvy Model Search. 2015.

 

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Backyard shoot for Sera Lilly jeans. 2015.

Taryn Brumfitt makes room for us all with this documentary. With her wonderful fun loving sparky approach, she elbows the status quo out of the way and asks finally, and loudly, REALLY?  Is this what we want for our gender moving forward?  She calls us to wake up and begin the revolution in our own mirrors. She’s a rockstar, and I wholeheartedly embrace her movement.

#Ihaveembraced #TheBodyPositiveMovement

 

Another Mother: A Story in Two Parts

I’ve been enjoying the writing prompts that are sent to me by a website I write for.
The Mighty are a wonderful platform for sharing stories that illuminate the lived experience of people with disabilities or invisible illness, or the stories of their caregivers and loved ones.  Their tagline reads
We believe in the power of stories,
the strength of communities
and the beauty of the human spirit.

Recently, they asked this:

Describe a time you saw your disability, illness and/or disease through the eyes of someone else.

I haven’t written this piece for them because it doesn’t really fit their format, there will be other things I can write for them.  This is fiction, but close to my reality at various times in my illness.

I noticed another motherPerched in the

See, their prompt got me thinking. It’s hard for me to see my illness through the eyes of someone else.  I don’t think other people have to feel any particular way about it.  But I wish with all my heart it was easier for others to understand it. I fully comprehend the perspective of well people, because I have been one. The sad fact is, that other people very rarely do see my illness.  Even when I am right in front of them talking to them about it.  So I began to think about who I was before.  I think ill people need to remember who we were before. It helps us to understand the gap between.  So this piece kind of evolved out of the idea of what might happen if the ‘other me’ met the ‘sick me’ at a school parents’ function.  What would each of us think? And how hard would we really try to understand each other?

 

other(1)It’s difficult. Attending these school parent functions.  You’d think it would get easier, the more you do.  But no! There’s what to wear and the fuss with hair and makeup.  There’s making sure the husband is home in time and the babysitter is up to speed with the kids’ routine. All the way to the function, we’re lamenting the fact that we never seem to get a babysitter so we can just go out and enjoy ourselves as a couple.  It’s always for work events or school functions.  Hardly ideal dates. We promise we’ll do that. But I wonder if we will. We’re always rushing about and there’s no time to pause and enjoy. It’s difficult, contemporary living. The juggle between work and life balance.

I know my husband will be off talking with a few of the other Dads within minutes of our arrival.  And so I locate my inner steel.  I’m wearing the right shoes, so I pull myself up taller, matching my heeled posture.  A glance around the room tells me I was right to prioritise the pedicure over the gym this morning. Although clearly, most of these women managed both. Polished, white teethed smiles flash across at me as I move over to a group of Mums I know.  We are still uneasy together, but I take a deep breath and remind myself that we are all in the same boat.  We greet each other cheerily and the conversation resumes about the teacher. She is all slender sophistication, that one. I spot her mingling with another group.  A father gazes at her with adoration in much the same manner as I have seen his son.  It’s sweet. I self consciously watch the diamonds flash on a finger wound around the stem of a wine glass.

Wine.  That’s what I need!  I smile back at the familiar faced group and make a quick detour to the bar.  Hubby catches my eye and nods a silent order. Fortified by familiar feel of the cool glasses in my hands I deliver his and make my way back towards the huddle of women I’d been chatting with.

On the way I notice another mother perched in the shadows along the side of the room. She looks a little pale and is a bit hunched over.  Uncomfortable in her own skin.  I feel for her, and I wonder if she is a bit socially awkward. Then I notice her cane. Oh, she must be that sick one.  I heard some of the mums talking about her once.  Her son is a playground troublemaker.  I remember making a mental note to avoid adding him to the birthday party list. Apart from looking a little unsure, she doesn’t really look sick. I couldn’t remember what it was that was actually wrong with her.  Something weird. Maybe she’s weird?  I thought. She doesn’t usually come to these things, I wonder why she is even here tonight, if she is not even going to mingle?  And then, in spite of myself, I am walking towards her, smiling and pulling up a chair alongside her.  I really hope I am not going to get stuck here for long.  I do find myself in these situations, don’t I?  My hubby always rolls his eyes at me when I do this.

Talking with her isn’t easy. She is struggling to smile and make small talk. Her husband looks our way and sends me a thankful smile. Oh no.  Now I am really stuck. But before too much longer, we have relaxed into a conversation.  We talk about our children and the upcoming school play. There is some laughter and commiserations about the hassles of dealing with babysitters. Hard to find good ones these days. I find myself looking at her intently. There is a shadow of someone else around her eyes. Did I once know her, before she became ill?  And even though I am internally telling myself not to,  I ask her about how she got sick.

She seems hesitant to talk about it, but I settle in to listen. She exhales and begins to tell me her story. I was much like you, she began.  And what she told me filled me with discomfort.  She got a bad virus (who hasn’t at some point been felled by a virus?) but for her it was the start of something much worse. Her heart stopped working properly. An abrupt change in her ability to stand, dizziness, nausea, the loss of other functions.  The list went on, she said, but she spared me the details. Everything, she said, that bodies do automatically.  I began to imagine what that kind of broken body must be like to live in. But I didn’t want to imagine it for long. I’m ashamed to say it, but hearing her story made me wonder if I could handle what she was going through. Six years she’s been sick for. Almost the entire length of her son’s life. I didn’t think I could.  My mind flashed through all the normal tasks of a normal day. No, there is no way I could manage being sick like she was.  I wondered, briefly, how she did it.  And then a desperation to be talking about anything else overcame me.

I thanked her for telling me all about it, I think I told her something like she was brave. I think I patted her hand.  She thanked me for coming over, looking across towards the huddled groups around the bar and graciously giving me an out. Thank goodness, I thought, as I asked her if I could get her a drink.  She asked for a water, so I went to get her one. When I returned her husband was back with her. She was looking paler.  He had leaned in close to hear what she was saying.  I unobtrusively put the water on the table near her knee and slunk away to my own husband’s side.  His hand slipped into mine and I squeezed his back. I doubted if I could explain to him how glad I was to have the ordinary troubles of hair, makeup and babysitters, the general ‘difficulty’ of going to a school function. Then someone asked me about the woman I had been talking to, the one, you know, with the boy who was often causing trouble.  I looked across to where she’d been sitting and she was gone.  And I told them that she was really nice.  Much like us.  Only dealing with a whole lot more than most of us understood.   I saw the smile flicker off the face of the asker.  The inward groan. I didn’t like seeing my thoughts etched out so plainly on someone else’s face.

And then I was drawn into a fun conversation, ordering another wine and moving on. I shook off my unease about the things she said, the alternate realities I’d rather not consider.  There was nothing I could do, was there? And she’d gone home. Really, there was no point in ruining a great night.  These school parent functions are great once you get into the swing of things.

I do think of her every now and then. When I am organising a party list, or doing mother help at school. It might cross my mind briefly when I am loading groceries into the back of my car. Or sometimes, when I am looking at my face in the mirror. And like the first time, the thoughts come and then they go. Because who am I to think I have anything useful to offer?  It’s difficult. It’s a juggle. And I move on.

____________________________________________________________________

otherIt’s difficult. Attending these school parent functions.  You’d think it would get easier, the more you do.  But no!  There’s all the pre-planning and resting up that I need to do for the ability to do one night out.  Extra medication.  Mental fortitude.  And there will be the payback afterwards.  Days crashed in bed. More wasted time while the tasks for the family mount and mount. I don’t get to many of these sorts of things, but I try to attend one or two a year.  And I love the drive there, hand on my hubby’s knee.  Feeling like we are on a real date, even just for the time in the car.  The beauty of the city lights reflected on rain soaked streets.  The privacy and togetherness of our car coccoon.  Just us.

I didn’t manage to do my hair or nails, those things seem to have gone by the wayside. I did manage makeup.  I check it in the passenger mirror.  The woman looking back at me is puffy faced, tired and pale. I wonder where my real self is hiding.  Somewhere on the other side of illness. I wonder if she is waiting for me there. If we will recognise one another.  But there is so much for my husband and I to chat about while we make our way through the traffic that I am soon distracted from my own reflection.  Any alone time together feels like we’ve rewound to the early days.  I look across at his profile and marvel at how I still feel this way after so long.  After so much water under the bridge.  He’s a good man, my man. I wish he didn’t have the dead weight of my illness to carry with him everywhere he goes.

When we arrive, the difficulty of walking from the carpark to the venue takes it out of me. I send my husband into the throng and perch in the shadows of the room, hoping that no one will talk to me.  Hoping that my hammering heart will slow to a calmer rhythm and the planes of the room stop warping and fading on the periphery of my vision.  Hoping the nausea will subside so I can form words without retching. I  want to be at home.  I wish I could fast forward to the end of the function.  Why am I even here, if I am not able to mingle?  I see that my hubby is having an animated chat with someone and it brings me relief. Maybe if he talks to five or so people, we’ll be able to consider the job done and go home. I wonder why I push myself to be part of a group of people who don’t actually want to know about me, about us. I don’t know.  But somehow, I know that I desperately want to be a part of this world, to know about them. I remember, in flashes of colour and animated laughter, what it felt like to be out with friends, drinking and talking about interesting things.  So often these days my only conversations are about illness.  With doctors, with other patients, with myself.

And then one of the mothers comes over to talk to me. She seems curious, and nice about it. It feels good to be able to explain why I am lurking in the shadows. I wonder if she can tell how much I long to stand and laugh in one of those sociable huddles. How I wish my son were more a part of things in the playground. And then, as fast as she arrived, she has gone.  I am jealous of the ease with which she sways across to the bar in her incredible shoes. I feel the old uncomfortable conflict of opening up. My hubby comes back,  he knows my best-before date has arrived. We make a move to go. I take a sip of the water she brought me and an unbidden sting in my eyes ushers me out the door.

I do think of her every now and then.  When my son is left off another party list, or I can’t volunteer to help with a school event.  Even when I am doing something as ordinary as filling in my online supermarket order. Or trying to find myself in the mirror. The thoughts come and then they go. Because who am I to think I have anything useful to offer?  It’s difficult. It’s a juggle. And I move on.

Intermittent Self Catheterisation (ISC)

A Girl’s Guide.
to intermittent self catheterisation

Urinary retention is part of the picture for some people with Dysautonomia.  Sometimes, the nerve messages that allow us to pee, don’t work. I am so proud that I can manage my retention myself, thanks in no small part to our in-home continence nurse program here in New Zealand, some googling and a lot of determination!

Learning to self catheterise is one of the hardest things I have done.  Somehow, it is a mental hurdle as well as a technical one.  Even when you have been doing it for a while, there are times when you can’t make it work.  Those times can bring a grown girl to tears.  When that happened for me, my hubster got googling. He passed the iPad through the bathroom door with a quiet “this might help?”. The pictures he found for me helped a little, but I really wished I’d had a more practical guide.

There is nothing so relieving as being able to empty your own bladder. However, when you feel sick, or bending double makes you dizzy, it can rapidly become a stressful situation.   But it is possible!  I and my fellow self-catheterising friends will tell you that once you get used to it, ISC is a proactive skill and a significant personal achievement. It gives you back control of yourself.

For the next two weeks, I am embarking on a new self-catheterisation routine.  Instead of catheterising when I think I have gone into full-blown retention (no pee for two days), I’ll be catheterising after I go to the toilet and measuring my residuals. My urologist wants to see if I am retaining even when I think I have finished peeing.  My bladder picture swings from retention to incontinence.  At the moment, I’m incontinent. It might explain this.  So, because my mind has been full of all the things I will need to do to ‘go mobile’ with my catheterisation, I began to think about how much I have learned in the last two years. I wish there had been a guide that made sense to be back when I began. So I am writing it!  This is for all the newbie cath girls (sorry boys, your process might need to be written up by a guy).

What you will need:

Sterile medical gloves (or sterilised hands)
Catheter (these are supplied in New Zealand by the district nursing service)
Lubrication jelly
A small handheld mirror.
Baby wipes or antibacterial wipes.
Jug (only if you are asked to measure)
A chart and pen (only if you are asked to measure)
A private, lockable location.  You can sit on the toilet or recline in the bath.  When I first started, the bath was easier.  Self catheterisation takes longer than a normal toilet stop. You need to be able to do this uninterrupted.  If you have children and they are very little, set them up in a safe spot for the duration, or even better, have someone watch over them while you are doing your thing.

First, do a vaginal reconnaissance(!)

Before you begin with anything, you’ll need to know where your urethra actually is.  You may be surprised!  I once spent half an hour stabbing my clitoris (ow ow ow!) because I thought my wees came out from what looked like a hole under my clitoral hood.  Uh, nope!  Everyone’s anatomy is different. And the diagrams on the internet aren’t very detailed!  Check out this one.  See?  Not so easy to see what’s what. (Source)

en3009646(I think I shall have to draw something more useful and put it in this post!  Time to shine a light on the subject at hand).
It’s really important to get to know your ‘nether-lands’.  So, to find your urethra, recline in the empty bath with a hand mirror.  Gently stretch the skin on both sides of the invisible centre line that goes from your clitoris to your baby-hole (excuse the basic terminology).  As you stretch along that line sideways with two fingers, look for a tiny opening.  Urethras are very good at hiding and in the beginning, it took me a long time to figure out exactly where mine was!

When you are confident that you know, you are ready to begin.

 

The Girly Bits

 

Gather your materials

…where they will be easy to reach, on a nearby bench or stool. You’ll be one handed, because one of your hands will be holding your ‘nether-lands’ in the right place, so have everything near to the free hand. I am right handed so I use my right hand for all the busy work.

Prepare your girly bits.

Thoroughly clean the areas around the labia with the wipes.  Wipe the inner labia and the area between the inner and outer.  Clean all the way from the clitoris to the poop hole. Always wipe in a downwards motion, never using the same surface of the wipe for a return swoop.  Discard wipes.  Sterilise hands again or snap on new gloves after you have done this.

Get your catheter prepared.

Only open the end of the packaging near the tip of the catheter.   That is the end without the rubber fitting.  It is pointy and has a little hole in it.  Free the end from the packaging and swipe some lubricating jelly on the end of it.  I cover about 3-5cm of the end of the catheter with jelly.  Not so there are globs of it, just so it has a coating.  This will help it slide into the urethra more easily.

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Fold the packaging back over the lubricated end and put it somewhere in easy reach.  (NOTE: If you are using a tube of lubricating jelly, rather than a single use sachet, make sure you never touch the end of the tube with unsterilised hands.  I squeeze a tiny bit out onto my glove and swipe the catheter end through it. This tube should stay with your catheterisation kit, not be used for other purposes).

Just a note on catheters; people develop their own preferences.  The internet picture above shows a short catheter, the photo shows a Nelaton size 12, 40cm catheter. I prefer to use long.  The bigger gauge the catheter is, the faster you will drain, so once you are used to it all, a larger catheter might be your preference. Talk to your continence nurse about which one might be right for you.

Do the business.

You’ll need to be in a position where you can see what you are doing. If you get dizzy, you’ll need to be somewhere safe.  To start with, reclining in the bath was the answer for me.  Now, I perch on the front edge of the toilet seat.   If you are required to measure, position your jug on the floor or bottom of the bath, between your legs. Remove the catheter from it’s sleeve and let the rubber end fall into the jug.  If you are not measuring, you can let the rubber end fall inside the toilet seat.   Keep a good length of catheter up from the toilet bowl though, you’ll need it.

Using one hand, hold back the labia, so you have a good view of that imaginary centre line.

Pointing the catheter in a downwards motion, but pressuring it slightly inward towards you, slowly slide the catheter down along the centre line between clitoris and baby hole. You may or may not have enough sensation to know exactly where the hole is; don’t worry,  practise will help with this part.  When you are at the urethra, (or you think you may be close based on your reconnaissance!) angle the catheter in pointing towards your tail bone.  Repeat this process until you reach it. You will know you have hit the target when the catheter goes in and it stings a little (like that sensation you get if you have a urinary tract infection and you pee) but the sting should be momentary. Feed the catheter in until the wee starts to flow. Eureka!

When the flow slows down,  gently push the catheter in slightly more.  You may have more wee to come, right at the bottom of the bladder.  Do this a few times until you are happy that your bladder feels empty.  Slowly remove the catheter and drop it in the sink. You’ll attend to it soon.

The lost urethra

Pack up.

Gather up the catheterisation kit and return all bits and pieces.  Check the measure on your jug, write it down.  Run tap water through the catheter and shake it out again.  If you plan to re-use the catheter, it will need to be sterilised (microwave sterilisers are great for this) but I recommend a single use when you are just starting out.   Empty jug into the toilet and flush. Remove gloves and dispose of them.   Return your catheterisation kit to its home.  I keep mine in the cupboard next to the toilet.

Recognise Your Brilliance.

Look at yourself in the mirror.  See that person?  She is a total legend.  She deserves certificates and gold medals and pats on the back!  You did it!  You brilliant creature you!  Sadly, you won’t be able to share this most excellent achievement with many, so your feedback will be minimal, but I want you to know that I know just how amazing you are!  That thing you did just there?  Skill!

Just a wee Problem

On my last visit to hospital, I was suffering with a pseudo-obstruction, my bladder had also stopped working. I was admitted through the emergency department and was to go straight to the gastroenterology ward.  The ED staff must have been busy, because on this occasion they decided the ward staff could catheterise me.  Usually, I arrive to the ward already done. By the time I made it up to the ward I’d been retaining wee for two and a half days.  It was excruciating, even without the pseudo obstruction pain and a tummy that was distended further than a ten month pregnancy. When the nurse arrived to settle me in, I whispered awkwardly that I was very sorry, but I had my period and I was in desperate need to be catheterised, “so, so sorry”.  I felt embarassed that she would be doing it, apologetic that she had to.  She shrugged, came back with the catheter and a sachet of lube.  “You do this at home all the time, no reason why you can’t do it now” she said, turned on her heel and left me to it.

I was so shocked I couldn’t speak.  I knew I needed to sort it out straight away. The pain and discomfort was not about to release me just because I was upset.  I didn’t have the emotional energy to fight with her. I took a big shuddery breath,  picked up the gear and inched my way over to the bathroom.  By the time I got myself down onto the toilet, I was in tears.  But even if I hadn’t been crying, I couldn’t even see my girly bits because of the abdominal distention. I took a big breath and did it the way I always do. I imagined I could see what I was doing.
And, there!  I got that catheter in, first go, sight unseen!
The relief was incredible. I’m sure I was holding more than 1L of pee!  It took a very long time to drain my bladder.  But as it drained away I felt so proud of myself. Some things are hard to explain, but when you feel out of control with your body, victories like this one feel pretty important. I would have liked to have run the corridors of that ward shouting “Guess what I did?!  Bloody marvellous, I am!”  I would have liked to have shoved that catheter up that nurse’s nose. That’s what!  But I got myself back to bed, curled up and cried a little bit more.

Wee problems are not really that wee, at all.