The Problem with a Small Bladder

I guess that most of us with small bladders try to keep that fact hidden, or at least not advertise it more than we have to. Of course, I know that it is part of my nature, nothing to be ashamed of any more than mousy hair, small boobs or uneven teeth, but there isn’t, as far as I know, a urinary equivalent of hair coloring, silicone implants, or cosmetic dentistry. (A bladder extension? Yes please! Would my health insurance cover that?) Maybe I am ultra–sensitive to this because I work in the marketing division of a competitive, male dominated, company, where I have to be better just to hold my own, so anything that might distract from perfection, such as popping to the loo too often, has to be avoided. Perhaps in another thousand generations homo–businesswoman will have evolved with a 12–hour bladder capacity. Until this happens, those of us who are ‘volumetrically challenged’ just have to cross our legs and make the best of it. Usually I manage OK, but sometimes things go wrong and I am in trouble.
Not long ago I was in charge of a presentation to a group of important potential clients. I had to be at my absolute best for this. Immaculately groomed, smartly dressed in a well fitting but not too short grey skirt and cream silk blouse, not overtly sexy, but enough to keep the (all male) clients interested. I prepared carefully, not too much coffee or juice at breakfast, and squeezed out every last drop of pee before the meeting started. I had to drink coffee with the clients, so by the lunch break I was in dire need of a loo, but tidying up before lunch is acceptable, so there was nothing remarkable about my visit except the relief that it brought me.
Sometimes it seems that when I really have to hold my pee, then my kidneys slow down so as to ease the strain on my bursting bladder, only to make up for lost production once I have been, and that is what happened that morning. We had no sooner got to the restaurant for lunch when I began to feel the need for another pee. I tried to ignore it, to make it go away, and not to make it any worse by drinking too much, but I had to have one glass of wine to keep up appearances, (If clients want to drink, it is not a good idea to look straight–laced by refusing to join them,) and sip some expensive mineral water during the meal. As we wanted to impress these clients, I was not stinting on the lunch, so by the time they were ordering dessert and coffee I was literally desperate for a loo, trying to find some way of crossing my legs more tightly without any squirming to give away my condition. I needed either to sit on my foot, heel pressing between my legs, or hold myself there, but neither was possible. I told myself I simply had to hang on, but as the dessert trolley arrived I realized that I wasn’t going to make it, and had to make some hurried excuse and head for the ladies. By some great effort of will power I did not hurry even though I was on the brink of letting some pee go. I just made it; frantic scrambling to get my clothes out of the way and sit on the loo before I lost control of my bladder.
Nobody said anything when I returned to the lunch, but I felt I had made a bit of a fool of myself, not being able to hold out until the end of the meal. This also meant that I really could not make another visit when we left the restaurant twenty minutes later, though as I then had to drive three of the clients back to their office, common sense told me I ought to empty my bladder before leaving. It wasn’t far, and everything would probably have been OK if I had been allowed to take my own route, but of course three men could not possibly trust a woman driver to know the way and insisted on directing me. Since the client is always right, even when he is stupid, I had to shut up and go where they directed. What was the problem? If the client wanted to waste my time driving a stupid way, why should I worry? I was getting paid and it was a company car.
The idiot insisted on my using the M25, as in his mind it was quicker to drive 20 miles at 80 mph than 10 miles at 30 mph, except that everyone knows that the only time you can rely on doing 80 mph on the M25 is 2 am, not 2 pm. Result; when we joined the motorway the traffic was hardly doing 40 mph. Wonderful! The first warning twinge from my bladder came then. Five minutes later I wanted to go for sure, and as we slowed to a crawl I knew one of my worst nightmares was happening. I was about to be stuck somewhere where a loo was absolutely inaccessible, wanting to go and getting worse… and worse. For me, there is nothing like knowing I am in a ‘no loo’ situation to make me want to go. At lunch I had drunk a glass of wine, a glass or more of water, a cup of coffee, and most of it was still inside of me. It does not look like much written down, but my bladder isn’t much either, and stuck in a traffic jam it was far more than I needed.
All I could do was to try everything I knew to make the urge to pee either go away or not to get any worst, but stuck as driver in a car with three relative strangers there were not many options open to me. I tensed up all my holding muscles, visualizing I was clenching my bladder outlet shut, a feeling that went from inside me, where I imagine my bladder to be, down to my crutch and bum and along my thighs. At the same time I pressed my thighs together and began to tap my left foot agitatedly on the car floor. This did help, I wanted to go a lot less for a few minutes, but this brief respite ended when the traffic completely stopped, and worse, it was stopped as far ahead as I could see. No way was this going to clear in less than half an hour, and a sharp pang of urgency from my bladder made me aware of just how long this would seem.
I wasn’t sure what was worse, being stopped when I could partly cross my legs, at least getting one knee over the other, or moving, however slowly, when it was more of a struggle to wait but I was getting closer to a loo. The facts of my situation were horribly simple; I could not pee until I got to the client’s office however long that took. There were no services on the motorway and with three male clients with me, squatting on the hard shoulder was not an option. Nor was allowing any pee to escape into my knickers. The leather seats of the BMW could certainly shrug off a whole bladder–full, but my skimpy knickers (mustn’t show a panty line through my skirt,) were not going to absorb any, and my grey skirt might have been designed to reveal the slightest ‘indiscretion.’ And, no, I did not have a jacket that could have covered the wet patch. There was only one thing I could do, HOLD IT. It was no good thinking that might not be possible, I HAD TO wait.
If only I had been allowed to go my own way, I would be in their office already, not have been stuck in this nightmare. Unless there was a sudden change in the traffic, it was going to take all my skill (and strength) to be able to hold out. The worst thing was that there was so little I could do to help me wait. We were still moving, if only agonizingly slowly, so I needed both feet to drive the car, (if only it had been automatic!) so no leg crossing, and certainly no sitting on my heel. With three passengers, and in daylight, there wasn’t going to be the slightest possibility of holding between my legs. It was all going to be down to the strength and endurance of my bladder control, not, unfortunately, my best subject.
I pressed my knees and thighs together; that helped a bit. I clenched my bladder tightly shut, and at the same time clenched every muscle from my waist downward; that helped more, but after a couple of minutes it was difficult to keep it up. I had to relax slightly, to try to keep something in reserve for later, when, God forbid, I would want to go more. Steering with one hand, I could rub the other along my leg, pressing down, squeezing my thigh, and gripping my skirt. That helped me wait, took the urgency of my need to pee; there was no logical reason why it did, but I didn’t care about that. Anything that made me want to pee less urgently was good.
Thirty minutes of increasing desperation passed, at last we seemed to be speeding up, and our exit was not too far away. I was almost frantic, trying just about every trick I knew to hold in my pee and make me want to go less urgently. Somehow I had survived, though twice in the last five minutes I had come very close to losing it, and I wasn’t sure that I would be able to contain many more surges in urgency. I dared not relax for a second, I was having to keep myself clenched tightly shut to hold in my pee, which was taking so much effort I was beginning to sweat. I forced myself to concentrate on my driving, hoping it would take my mind of my bladder problems, and because the last thing that I wanted was to run into another car. I was also mapping out the quickest route from the motorway exit to the office, as every second was going to be vital, and this time I wasn’t going on anyone else’s short cuts.
Unless you had been there, you would not have believed the state I was in when I drove off the motorway, on the brink of wetting my knickers and knowing I had to hold out another ten minutes. I was trying to act normally, to appear the confident, composed, business woman, but I kept shuddering with the effort I was making to hold my pee, apart from constantly knocking my knees together and wriggling slightly on the seat. I was sweating more, and I had to make a deliberate effort no to groan or breath faster, all warning symptoms that I was nearing my limit. What I wanted to do was to jam my hand between my legs and press with all my strength, and I was in such a state that if I had thought there was the slightest chance of doing that without being seen I would have done it. I was gripping my skirt over my legs, and several times my hand strayed upwards and gripped my skirt across my aching bladder. Somehow the nearer to my wee–hole I was gripping the more it helped.
Stuck at a red light for what seemed like an hour, feeling control slipping away, I took a huge gamble and put my right hand under my bum and pressed my fingers upwards between my legs. Did that feel good! At last my poor, overworked, bladder muscles had some help, and for the first time for ages I could relax a tiny bit. Then the lights changed, I needed both hands to drive, and it was back to hanging on with all my might, hoping I might just be able to last another five minutes. I managed one quicker ‘reverse hold’ at a red light, and a longer one when one client was getting a visitor’s pass for me to get into their car park. There had been times when I had not thought I could have waited this long, but the last lap, walking into the client’s offices and finding the loo, was still to come. A little voice in the back of my head was telling me that once I was standing up a little leak into my knickers would not matter, nobody would see or know anything, and I could clean up in the ladies. I forced myself to ignore this, firmly telling myself that grown women had control of their bladders and did not wet their knickers, ever. Under no circumstances, I told myself, was any leak to be allowed. It was far too risky in such an important situation, and I was terrified that a ‘little leak’ might not be so easy to control, and could become a veritable flood pouring down my legs.
Try as I might, there was no way I could walk normally from the car park into the office. I was fighting so hard to hold back my pee that I could hardly walk at all. The best I could manage seemed to me to be more like a tense, stiff–legged shuffle with my thighs and knees pressed together all the time, and I was not aware of very much except that agonized area between my bladder and my knickers. Looking back, I cannot believe that nobody noticed what a state I was in, but perhaps they were not interested in desperation nor could they imagine anyone could want to pee so desperately so soon after leaving the restaurant. Only when we were inside their offices did I force myself to take notice of my surroundings, frantically scanning around for any sign of the ladies’. Nothing in reception, not even a receptionist I could have asked. Oh please, please, I thought, there must be one near, I can’t wait much longer, I must, must, hold on, there must be a ladies’ here. Then my prayers were answered and there was a ladies’ room just outside the meeting room we were using; I almost cried out with delight when I saw it. I also almost let a spurt of pee go at the anticipation of the relief, and I simply could not hold out any longer. Without pausing in my stilted walk I said, “Can you excuse me a moment, I would just like to tidy up before the meeting starts,” and was pushing the door open without waiting for any reply.
As soon as I was in the ladies’ I was holding between my legs, pressing with all my strength as I flung myself into the nearest cubicle, leaning forward, legs knotted, holding like crazy, while I bolted the door, just getting enough control to get my knickers and tights down before dropping on the loo and letting my pee pour out. Relief, wonderful relief, with about a second to spare before I would have wet my knickers, it had been a very close thing. With a bladder like mine, even a major emergency like this was soon over, leaving me extremely relieved but with a bladder ache that persisted all the afternoon, confirming just how much strain it had been under. Another close call to add to my list of emergencies, proof again that if I am forced to I can hold out longer than I think. But always there is the nagging question of how much longer could I have lasted, and what would I have done if I had started to lose control while I was still driving. That is not a situation I want to think about.
Paul Tester ( Email Welcome )