This was a touching, well-written essay, a window into an experience that I've never thought much about.

Although I've never experienced fistula, I have my own medical problem with embarrassing symptoms, and I've been prone to hysterical upsets and bouts of self-pity. But your essay provided a refreshing approach. You were embarrassed but not humiliated, and you even found moments of humor.

I envy your ability to reflect upon your situation as you have in your essay, when you see yourself buying diapers and "almost find her funny and beautiful" -- and by the end of your piece, I can see her that way too.

Salon is once again, with this article, square in the middle of the Pseudoleft, the Fake Left. How so?

Well, this article is typical pseudoLeft fare--focus on the tiny fraction of sexual freaks in society, and somehow make that a focus of political thought, as opposed to focusing politics on the basic economic problems of the great majority--like lack of universal healthcare, the loss of of progressive taxation base, and other populist economics issues like how mass immigration is driving down wages.

Ooohh, NO, our fake left is obsessed with sexchange operations, or gay rights, or Identity Politics.

Gee, I cannot IMAGINE why the nation has moved right. Someone help me out here....

This is a personal essay about coping with an embarrassing medical condition, not an article about people who wear diapers for fun.

Thank you for your essay.

I suffered a childbirth injury that in another country would have left me dead or maimed for life.

I am unspeakably grateful to have received the outstanding medical care that I did and to not have had further health problems stemming from childbirth.

The website you referenced, www.worldwidefistulafund.org contains valuable information. I just made a donation and only wish I could give much more.

Our sisters deserve so much better than to live the remainder of their lives in shame and pain.

What??? Cryofan, did you even READ the article?

Dear Abby Frucht,

thank you so much for writing this essay. I admire the way you reflect upon this medical condition, and how you manage to write about it in such a intellectual and sober, yet emotional and moving way.

Issues related to the female lower body are often tabooed in society. Hence the women themselves are left with the individual sense of shame, in addition to the often painful and confining of the injury itself.

I therfore sincerely want to thank you for adresseing this subject in a public sphere, and for also directing attention to women worldwide who are injured by fistula.

Cryofan: Could you please apologize to the author of this essay for insulting her like this? Or else explain what hystorectomy has to do with being what you call "sexual freaks"? Your comment to this essay makes me sad in so many ways.

Well... three words, but one of them is hyphenated.

Adult-Sized Depends

Who, upon discovering they are incontinent, wouldn't make their first shopping trip one to the drug store to pick up some adult-sized diapers??

Christ almighty, this author's house must smell like a cesspool.

There's no shame in having a medical condition like this, but honestly, it's a pretty strange person who wouldn't immediately find a way of minimizing the mess.

I liked your article and was very interested in your condition and treatment.

It is just the expression "pee your pants" that is driving this '50's Ivy League grad CRAZY! We pee'ed IN our pants and sometimes pooped in them, but this NEW language is, oh well, I COULDN'T CARE LESS! Does anybody out there remember?

Your article made me think in many spheres. I admire your courage to share your situation and actions so clearly and openly. Thank you for all of that.

I particularly appreciate Chuck's actions. This is how I learn to behave. I am happy you shared his reactions to your condition. I am more prepared than before.

Thank you , thank you, thank you.

Are you fucking on DRUGS cryofan???

But instead of the predictable soft-feminist-womb-mystique-medicine-is-evil boring screed I found a delightful short essay on how the corporal experience influence our view of the outer world.

And an entertaining and thoughtful writer. If I were very wealthy and/or living somewhere where I might stumble upon Abby Frucht's books I think I'd buy them. As it is I hope she gets a big fat best-seller and her work eventually turns up as scanned or pirated ebooks.

I do also agree with the prevailing sentiment, it is a nice essay. But really! What tremendous amount of denial must exist for someone to be able to sit on her boyfriends leather couch, hoping maybe that she won't gush urine?!?

Your essay was amazing. I admire your courage and eloquence as you shared this painful experience. I hope that you are mending well.

I have never written a letter to Salon before. But this one demands it.

Abby, your essay made me want to stand up and cheer. It's everything a piece of writing should be: brave, subtle, raw, beautiful, and human.

Something about it gives me faith.

In addition to the organization the author mentioned, readers may want to check out the Fistula Foundation, which operates a hospital in Addis Ababa. The founder, Dr. Catherine Hamlin, appeared on the Oprah Winfrey show. www.fistulafoundation.org

Thank you for this article, and thank you for printing it today. I am recovering from rectal abscesses and fistula, hardly the most glamorous illness for an attractive, active young woman. Far too much time, attention, and energy has recently been focused on my butt, and like the author, I am blessed to have a laid-back, understanding boyfriend. A combined symptom of the underlying bowel disease and the cocktail of antibiotics, anti-infectives, probiotics, painkillers and anti-nausea meds is somewhat of a pendulum between constipation and diarrhea, neither or which are fun, and neither of which are safe or sanitary given my condition. All of this has also left my sphincter muscles sore and weak, forgivable since they've recently had holes bored through them by bacteria and subsequently been chopped open in surgery. Sometimes I don't make it all the way to the toilet. Sometimes when my drugs cause me to vomit, a bit of the goo that my stomach has become escapes into my wounds' dressing. Or when I cough. Or when I just wait too long because I'm dreading the slow, careful cleanup and re-dressing that must follow.

About twenty minutes before I sat down for my morning web skimming today, I got up for the slow, painful trek to the bathroom, hoping that I had gotten the cocktail right and that for once I was going to have a healthy bowel movement. Before I got my slippers on, though, I lost; unlike the other times, however, I was unable to stop it. My body, once so cooperative on long road trips, had no response whatsoever to my whispered "no. no. no." I just stood there, frozen, 25 and until recently healthy, helpless to stop the stinging stream of shitting myself.

I knew the huge diaper-like maternity pad I wear to absorb the blood and pus would have caught it all, so with a slow, careful trudge, I headed toward the bathroom for the most laborious cleanup yet. Then I put on new gauze and a fresh pad, lay down on my good side, and read this article. Thanks, Salon, for making me feel a little less ashamed and alone.

[I guess I must feel less ashamed, since I'm putting this oh-so-detailed account up on the Web. Sorry, folks, for the TMI with your breakfast. Sorry about the heading, too, I couldn't resist.]