The first year after the birth of my first child was difficult. It was restless nights, nursing difficulties, and ensuring that I met the demands of this tiny life I had made. And, while meeting needs is how we got here in the first place, one of the most unexpected plot turns following her birth was my complete repulsion to the idea of having sex with her father. For years, I blamed it on hormonal shifts and the shock of having a human plow through my basement. However, a nice doctor later explained that I had been given a “husband stitch,” which is a terrible term.
My first labor wasn’t particularly terrible in the sense that I didn’t lose the baby or come close to dying, but I was given medicines I didn’t want and an episiotomy I hadn’t anticipated. My labor lasted 22 hours and three hours, including three hours of pushing. So when the doctor ultimately informed me I had to choose between an episiotomy or a c-section, I agreed to the procedure. She was born after he sliced me.
Before they rushed her away to be cleaned up, I held her for a little time. I couldn’t fight because I was exhausted. The doctor gave me a local anesthetic and told me that all he had to do was sew me up “nice and tight” and we’d be done. When he said that, he winked at my spouse, but I was too dazed to notice.
At my two-week postpartum appointment, the same doctor entered the room, his clipboard aimed at me instead of me, and half-heartedly asked if I wanted to murder myself or my kid. He insincerely inquired if I had any questions because I didn’t. I knew it was pointless, but I inquired as to whether or not there was anything I could do about my stretch marks. I couldn’t stop crying when I looked in the mirror. He assured me that they will fade and that I should not be concerned. “Whoa!” he said as he pulled up my gown to pound on my uterus. Those stretch marks, on the other hand, are really unsightly. Those aren’t going away anytime soon. That’s the deepest I’ve ever seen them.”
I choked back tears, but I still wish I could have strangled him. The time spent in prison would have been well worth it.
The only other piece of information he provided was that I’d be ready for sex in a few weeks. I told him I wasn’t sure I’d be ready in six months, but he dismissed my concerns.
My husband tried to seem normal around the six-week milestone, but I think he was more delighted about that than our baby’s actual delivery. My vagina felt like it was holding a crowning bowling ball right after she was delivered. Six weeks later, it was still a war-torn country in my opinion. We postponed it because I told him I was afraid. He was “just curious” if I was ready two weeks later.
I agreed to give it a shot, and we did. But I was in tears before we even got a whole try-in. We turned it off again because crying isn’t his thing. We waited until our baby was four months old to try again.
I decided I’d just work through the discomfort, which I did. My husband, on the other hand, seemed to have wrapped his trash in fly paper and then rolled it in shards of glass. It’s not as enticing as it sounds. I bit my lower lip and pretended everything was alright. That was something I did till she was six months old.
“According to my midwife, the extra loop is known as a ‘husband stitch,’ because the ‘physicians’ who do it think they’re building a nice little 13-year-old vagina for the poor husband who has to smash into the damaged goods of a post-birth crotch.”
When my husband realized I was lying, I went back to the doctor at his request, telling him that sex was terrible. He said that it was typical for it to be painful at first. When I informed him it was more than a little painful, he didn’t listen. I even carried my description of fragments of glass. He told me he didn’t have any answers for me, but that if I stuck it out long enough, everything will be great.
I kept trying, hoping that things would improve, but they didn’t. Overall, I experienced around 18 months of “shards of glass” sex before it improved slightly to just “plenty of paper cuts” sex. Because we had a needy breastfeeding kid who never slept, I was able to get out of the deed most of the time. But on the rare occasions that I had a weekend snooze, I’d give it a shot. I’d tell him if it was too painful, and he’d stop and simply hold me. But I was furious with myself for refusing to have sex with my own husband.
I eventually got pregnant again after sticking it out long enough, but I moved to a new female general practitioner. I hadn’t told her about the pain because my previous physician had advised me to just put up with it. I accepted the fact that this was my new normal.
With my next baby, I had a dream labor and delivery, and my doctor said I tore just a little along my episiotomy line naturally.
In a lot of respects, that birth ended up being a healing experience. Not only did I achieve the natural labor and delivery that I desired, but the sex was also less painful. I was ready to try at the six-week mark, and at the eight-week mark, I was genuinely enjoying it.
My desire to become pregnant again stemmed from the euphoria I had when my second child was born. But, as neither of us wanted to have children of our own, I became a surrogate. I needed to find a new doctor because we’d recently moved back to Texas. Because I had such a positive experience with my female GP in Indiana, I decided to join a midwifery practice.
I’d been so afraid of sex that I’d strained my vag muscle attempting to keep invaders out.
They took the time to thoroughly talk to me about my health history at my first meeting, and I felt like it was appropriate to bring up the painful sex again. My midwife was appalled, rather than encouraging me to “suck it up.” She said that just because something was widespread didn’t mean it was acceptable or something I should simply “accept.”
She inspected my nethers and informed me she thought she had located the source of my problem after some prodding around. The first was a muscular strain. I’d apparently been so afraid of sex that I’d strained my vag muscle trying to keep intruders out. The second was that it appeared I’d gotten an extra stitch somewhere along the way. Although I wasn’t now sewed too tightly, there was evidence that I’d been sewn up past the initial seam at some point.
That small alteration was done by a seamstress, and there’s no doubt in my mind who did it. My agony was significantly less after my female doctor’s fine work than after the male OB’s botched one. I was enraged.
My midwife told me that the extra loop is known as a “husband stitch” because the “physicians” who perform it think they’re producing a nice little 13-year-old vagina for the unfortunate husband who has to smash into the crotch’s damaged goods. Unfortunately for everyone involved, because a husband stitch is so abnormally painful for the lady being stitched, it generally results in less intercourse for males.
A vagina is similar to an umbrella, she explained. Most of the time, it is closed, but when it is necessary to let things through, such as newborns and penises, it can be readily opened and closed, much like an umbrella. Is it sometimes blown inside-out by the winds? Yes. But a husband stitch isn’t going to cure it. And if a woman ever feels like she’s throwing a hotdog down a hallway, she should tell her doctor because surgery and physical rehabilitation are required. But a stitch from a husband? That’s nonsense from the Middle Ages.
My natural birth with the surro baby didn’t require any stitches, and my prior birth ripped through my husband’s stitch. Since then, I’ve healed in a variety of ways, and my sex life has returned to normal. Since I have a painful viewpoint, I think I’m doing better than ever. But if I ever see that guy OB again, I’m going to stitch his d*ck hole with a wife stitch.