When I was 14, I wet the bed. I hadn’t wet the bed since I was a toddler. I was scared and confused. Don’t worry, Mom said. It’s probably a fluke.
But it wasn’t. I wet, night after night.
I saw doctors — our family doctor, then urologists and neurologists. They all agreed that it wasn’t childhood bedwetting — it wasn’t hormones or a small bladder. I wasn’t going to outgrow it. But they could not find a reason or a cure.
Once I got past the initial shock of the wet bed, the despair at being a chronic bedwetter and the humiliation (and discomfort) of wearing a diaper, however, my bedwetting and diaper wearing stopped bothering me. A diaper took care of the consequences, and wearing and laundering one became as much a part of my bedtime and morning routine as brushing my teeth.
It didn’t affect my social life. I dated and had a serious boyfriend. I didn’t tell him, because he didn’t need to know. I went on sleepovers and school trips. I could discreetly change in a sleeping bag or under covers.
After a year or two of wetting every night, I started to have an occasional dry night. My wetting became less and less frequent until, by my senior year in high school, I was dry for a month or more at a time. When I did wet, it was in streaks of a few nights in a row. It was light enough that I could use a disposable. I stopped wearing protection at home, other than for a week or two after the few times that I did wet. I did wear when I was away from home.