So I Have three Labia Now (Critically)


Childbirth is uncooked and traumatic and gory. Except you’re a type of delivery goddesses that magically experiences ecstasy whereas child peacefully glides by your delivery canal. Likelihood is, your delivery story left you with a couple of battle wounds.

I’m fortunate. My childbirth damage is minor in comparison with the horror tales I’ve heard. I had a incredible OB and nursing crew to assist me rocket by a fast, intense 6-hour labor.

Nonetheless, with an OB named Dr. Cranium and a med scholar who jogged my memory of Edward Scissorhands, I ought to’ve identified I wouldn’t stroll away from childbirth unscathed.


I used to be, in reality, wheeled out of the hospital filled with stitches and medicines to assist me address a labial laceration – an uncommon tear that ripped my proper labia in half. Stitches had been imagined to fuse it again collectively to, , preserve my girl bits from dangling within the wind.

However this was the dialog at my 6-week checkup, once I discovered the stitches didn’t maintain:

Me: “Wait, so I’ve three labias now?”

Dr. Cranium: “Effectively…. Simply consider your self as unique!”


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Unique?! The simultaneous confusion and horror will need to have been written throughout my face, as a result of we each simply sat there in a pregnant pause.

Unique will not be a phrase I need my physician utilizing to explain my post-partum physique.

Unique is lounging on a tropical seaside, slurping boozy punch from a pineapple with these tiny pink umbrellas, whereas Jason Momoa oils my sun-kissed stretch marks.

Unique is…. Okay, wonderful, I’ll be real looking. Unique is including a pump of Irish cream syrup to my common nonfat latte.

I’m in my mid-thirties. I’m attempting to juggle a child and a profession and mortgage and a 12-year marriage. I don’t want unique ladybits, thankyouverymuch.

And even when I did need my vagina ruffles to channel Beyonce’s Lemonade gown, I’d reasonably undergo by a Brazilian than be caught with a labial laceration for the remainder of my life.


But right here I’m, three years and three labias later. I’ve largely forgotten all about my post-partum trauma. However each once-in-a-while, like an irritating hangnail, the scar tissue snags on a chunk of low cost bathroom paper, or on my raggedy mother underwear, and it hurts like a mom. Visions of Edward Scissorhands flash by my thoughts. So I breathe, and – per Doc’s orders – I think about myself on that unique seaside.

“Why hey, Mr. Momoa. Permit me to introduce you to Quantity Three.”

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