Twinning in Mesh

It started with a pool of blood and ended with my husband and me twinning, through trauma, in mesh panties for postpartum moms.

It was a few days past Valentine’s Day when my symptoms of lethargy, shortness of breath, and weakness, along with the continual abnormal uterine bleeding, came back with a vengeance.

I once again chalked them up to stress, or a wonky phase of perimenopause, that is, until one day, I felt a huge gush in between my legs.

“Hey, babe? Are you okay? You came in so fast. Did something happen?” my husband asked me through the bathroom door that I was on the other side of.

I called back, trying to sound steady.

“I’m fine!” However, he did not believe me.

“Are you throwing up?” he asked.

“No! I’m cold, I’m weak, I’m tired, and I just want to be left alone!” I snapped.

“Have you eaten today?” he asked again, concerned.

I yanked the door open, fuming.

“I told you to leave me alone!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, mere inches from his face, as I stepped in the blood that had pooled at my feet.

I slammed the door in his face, ripped my bathroom apart trying to find something that could take the pain away, and the sobbing that was filled with primal rage and the sound of someone unraveling came out of me.

The temperature that day was a staggering -25 degrees, enhancing my symptoms even more as I planned to complete one last order before heading home for the day.

I was standing in a random man's driveway as he plowed the snow from it around me while I delivered his 4 bags of groceries, when I felt the gush.

Trying to remain calm and professional, I walked back down to my car to retrieve the last bags, only making it halfway up this time.

My heart was pounding at this point, and I had lost all color from my face.

The customer realized I wasn’t going to make it all the way up, so he came down to retrieve the rest of his bags from my cold, shaky hands after parking his plow.

Relieved I could finally mark that order complete, I rushed back to my car to assess what could be wrong, called my husband, and drove home.

Once I arrived, I blew past Dan without a word and went straight for the bathroom.

Once I had reached the safety of a closed door, the reality of that gush became real.

Nervous, confused, scared, and not wanting to worry Dan, I started the shower and sank to the bathroom floor, feeling my thoughts begin to spiral while blood continued to pool on the ground beneath me.

By this time, those symptoms I had been ignoring weren’t just physical anymore.

My mental health had taken a rapid decline, adding a volatile layer to the moment.

Dan had never seen me like that, which scared him and me.

Inside my head, everything was chaos.

A cruel loop of self-sabotage, shame, and helplessness.

I am not one to complain, I apologize too much, ask for help too little, even when I’m unknowingly knocking on death’s door, and I feel like a burden to everyone, including strangers.

At that moment, on that bathroom floor, I felt completely alone.

Even though I wasn’t.

I felt like a burden. I wasn’t.

I felt like everyone would be better off without me.

All the lies my brain was feeding me. Rude.

My body was breaking, but my mind was already gone.

After destroying the bathroom to find something to harm myself with, I finally crawled into the shower, where I couldn’t even stand by myself.

I sat beneath the scalding stream, sobbing as water poured over me and thought of my children.

They were my reason; the lifeline I clung to when everything else went dark.

Once the mental fog had thinned just enough, I called out for Dan.

He was on the phone with his mother, speaking with a low, worried tone while his eyes were red and stinging from the tears as he explained the situation.

It took a bit of convincing, but as I was sitting in the shower shivering and unable to care for myself, I finally was able to whimper “okay, let’s go to the ER, and I’m sorry” to Dan and his mother, who is a retired nurse.

My husband's body flooded with relief, the kind that feels like taking your first breath after nearly drowning, as he helped me up off the floor.

He dried my wet hair and body as he helped me put on enough clothing to not catch an indecent exposure charge at the hospital.

Then, as he opened the front door to lead us to the car, his relief came crashing down as I leaned on him for support and murmured:

“Don’t let them resuscitate me if I die.”

He squeezed my hand and said, “Nope. You’re not getting out that easily. I’ll just wait until you pass out and then NOT sign the DNR.

I am your husband, after all, Mrs. Ylvisaker. Legally, I get to keep you alive.”

I managed a weak smile as I was reminded that we had, in fact, followed through on that wild idea and got hitched after just five months.

Neither of us had known just how soon we’d be called to live out the 'in sickness' part of our vows, and neither of us had any clue just how messy it would get.

I had just stepped into the murky waters of online dating after escaping a year-long, toxic relationship, following the ending of a 15-year marriage.

I was newly single for the first time in years, so I thought I might as well explore.

Bring on the man meat!

But the selection was bleak.

The tale is as old as time: two middle-aged millennials on the hunt for the one, battling through tech-based meet-cutes while collecting nothing but swipe-right regrets.

Then, Dan’s profile popped up.

Well, hello… Now we’re talking, I thought to myself as I read over his bio and scrolled through his photos.

He was a 6'1", long-haired, bathrobe-wearing, weirdo.

His look was my vibe, but it was his bio that hooked me.

Something about it just hit different, like in my gut I knew this was the one, and that honestly scared me.

Once I swiped right and our profiles matched, I decided to send the first message.

It was a simple nod to our shared sobriety, how rare it was to find a kindred spirit on a dating app, and full transparency about how messy this stage of my life was.

We made a plan: a free zoo date halfway between us, an hour's drive for each.

When the day came, I was a nervous wreck, but I put on my cutest zoo outfit, styled my hair into two playful buns, and hit the road.

I pulled into the parking lot and spotted him right away.

As I stepped out of the car, he greeted me with:

“The speed limit is 15.”

Bold, I thought to myself, but we do love a man who can open a conversation with a potential traffic violation.

Flustered, I forgot the advice from my baby daddy of, “It’s a date, hug, don’t shake hands,” as I confidently stuck out my hand.

“Oh. So we’re doing this?” is what he responded with to my hand being presented to him.

“Yup.” I smiled.

We proceeded to shake hands, then have an epic 11-hour date where it ended under a blanket beneath the stars on a park bench, trading sweet kisses and quiet confessions.

He later admitted to me that on the drive home, he whispered to himself, “I just met my wife.”

I was just as invested. In fact, the next day, I added two notes to my notes app: one a love confession, the other... a wild idea.

We should get married.

The following weekend, I drove two hours north to stay with him, where we had no TVs on and no music playing.

We spent most of it under the covers, not having wild sex, but talking, existing, and learning all about one another while falling deeply in love.

I showed him the love notes I had written.

His response?

“Omg. I love you too, and yes, let’s get married!”

I left a few days later to begin the long-distance part of our love story, where those two months apart only solidified what we both already knew.

We built a foundation on voice memos, weekly six-hour FaceTime calls, and a trust only time and distance can offer.

The drive to the ER is only 5 minutes, but by the time we arrived, I was a shell of myself, all color drained from my face.

The receptionist we saw upon arrival was anything but empathetic, so I was grateful to have the second, younger, friendlier receptionist step in to offer a wheelchair.

Standing was impossible without support, as I learned my weight had dipped to only 92lbs, and even at only 5’, that put me in the underweight range.

Vitals were checked, blood was drawn, and the reassurance I desperately needed, that coming in had been the right call, came pouring in from the all-female staff.

Once the lab results were in, we discovered the excessive menstrual bleeding, along with a diagnosis of anemia and a sky-high TSH level, all culminated in my hemoglobin dropping to dangerously low levels.

Upon hearing the number, 5.5, I broke down crying.

My voice shook as I let them in on something: My dad had died 15 years earlier, with a hemoglobin of 2.4, so I knew what that number could mean, and I was terrified.

My blood count being so low, along with the continual, uncontrolled menstrual bleeding, meant a blood transfusion was required, two bags worth.

As the staff set up, I felt nothing but gratitude for the person/people who donated that blood.

It was literally saving my life.

Please donate if you are able.

While Dan, who was nervous, fidgety, and unsure of what to do, started asking questions all about the blood transfusion process, the nurse, who also had a student with her, was excited by his curiosity.

So, after the next question, “Why is there a second filter?” she quickly scurried out to fetch a sample to then put on a small demonstration.

Our room quickly became the 'party' room as there were 5+ staff members, plus Dan, all in one triage room, entranced by a blood transfusion demonstration.

We even saw the sweet receptionist again, who snuck in to update us on insurance while I, in my delusional state, blurted out “How old are you?!”, shocked this young woman was doing such a grown-up job.

“Nineteen!” she beamed, clearly proud.

“Wow! You are so young. I’m so impressed, you’re doing a great job,” I gushed, leaving the poor girl flustered and accidentally turning off the light with her shoulder as she tried to make her escape.

All we needed was a disco ball, and you’d think Michael Scott was hosting one of his epic “Cafe Disco” dance parties in our triage room.

In fact, once the blood transfusion had started, it didn’t take long for me to start feeling human again, so even I was ready to whip out my best dance moves.

A few more hours passed before I was admitted overnight to the Women’s Health floor, and Dan was able to go get some of our overnight items, including one pair of underwear for himself for the next day.

Once back, we settled into the big bed together for the long night ahead of broken sleep from constant vital checks while the staff swirled around.

By the morning, my blood levels were up to 9.9, and I was feeling like a whole new human with the stress of the night before starting to fade.

I was able to order a full spread for breakfast before Dan helped me to the bathroom while I waited for it to arrive.

He stood close by, still in the bathroom, just next to the sink to ensure I didn’t fall.

As I finished up, I heard him say, “uh oh,” and his tone made me freeze.

“OMG! WHAT?!” I asked, panicked.

“Um. No. It can’t be… Ope. Yep. So… I just pooped my pants.”

As the words left his lips, the fact was now well-known to both of us by the smell.

He stood, frozen, afraid to move, and unsure what to do.

I, on the other hand, had the best belly laugh of my life.

Was my new husband really standing in front of me… with shit in his pants?

Yes, yes, he was.

I hurried to wash my hands so I could get out of there while gagging and laughing the entire time, naturally.

I then exited the bathroom to be greeted by two Phlebotomists, who were standing in the room, waiting to draw more blood.

Welp, that’s some unfortunate timing. How much had they heard? Can they also smell that?

Unsure of how to act, I just plopped myself onto the bed and handed over my good vein, where neither of us made eye contact or small talk.

Dan was still hiding out in the bathroom, helpless.

Once they finished and left, he poked his head out of the door to ask me to call the nurse.

He needed to shower.

Soap and towels on the agenda.

I agreed to call, but only if he told the nurse what happened.

“Fair,” he agreed.

I picked up my call button and pressed it.

“Ok, get ready, she’s coming!” I shouted so he could hear.

Knock, knock.

“Hi! Ok, so this isn’t for me. I’m totally fine. My husband, however…”

I tried to stifle a laugh and looked at the bathroom door.

Dan then opened it, the smell now able to escape, making what happened in there known to all in the room.

“I am so sorry about this and I am so embarrassed, but um… I seem to have soiled myself.

And it’s really gross.

Is there any way I can get some soap and a towel to wash off?” he asked reluctantly while recounting the incident.

The nurse, being as professional as she could be, looked at my poor, sweet, vulnerable husband with so much empathy and admiration and said, “Trust me. This isn’t uncommon” before rushing off to retrieve the requested items.

She returned with body wash, shampoo, conditioner, a towel, and a pair of mesh underwear.

That’s right, the same mesh underwear that those of us who have birthed tiny humans swear by post-delivery.

However, these were not for me.

I already had my own pair… these were for Dan, and he had no other option but to accept them.

The exchange happened quickly through a small crack in the door before she turned back to me, smirking, reassuring me that this type of thing truly isn’t uncommon on this floor.

As Dan showered, the breakfast I had ordered arrived, but sadly, by this time, any sort of appetite I had was long gone.

Fresh out of the shower, Sherm the worm (my pet name for him) stood there with the bag in his hands, knowing what he must do.

He put on the mesh undies and opened the door to put on a mini fashion show for me as I squealed, “Fashion show! Fashion show! Fashion show at lunch!”

He then sprinted to the bed to hide under the covers when our nurse, who seemed to have a radar for the embarrassing moments, walked in just in time to witness him in all his mesh panties glory.

She reassured him again that he was in a safe space, zero judgements were passed, and that this wasn’t the first time this had happened, nor would it be the last.

“As I said, it isn’t uncommon for spouses to have this sort of reaction when they know their wives are going to be okay.

When they are finally able to relax, their ENTIRE body relaxes, it’s a sign of how much he loves you, really.”

She said, smiling at me.

Sherm chimed in, “Well, yeah! She’s kinda my favorite person. I sort of want to keep her around.”

True love right there.

A couple of hours later, I was discharged as we gathered our things, leaving one pair of underwear behind.

As we walked the halls to leave, giving out thank you's and friendly smiles, I swear I heard the echo of whispers:

“There goes the guy who loves his wife so much… he pooped himself in front of her.”

What. A. Legend.

Written by: Ash Ylvisaker