The Tribe of Disabled Motherhood

Those first days with Georgia were a nightmare. I couldn't adjust to the fact that my hips were still stiff from my delivery even though it was almost a week after the birth. I thought I would have bounced back faster than I was. I heard her wailing and it made me panic because I was scared she was sick like I was as a child. Like they always say, you can take yourself away from the fear, but you can't take the fear out of you. “Shh…Georgia, we're gonna get through this, I promise. Mama's gonna look back at this and laugh. It's Wednesday. Mama gets to flex her writing muscles at Uncle Beckman's table tonight. You're named after him. Mama wouldn't be the writer she is if it wasn't for him and his crew around the table. “ I was rambling again, but I could swear I saw her smile. I had prescriptions, bottles, formula, and multiple other things lined up on my counter. The list in my brain was a mile long. “Okay, medicine first. Where did I put the dosing cup? I need water. No coffee for me anymore. God dang it, I misplaced my birth control pills. Can't skip those. No siblings for Georgia anytime soon. Oh, I can't forget the muscle relaxer either. Everything is stiff and causing me pain because of the spastic ricochet. But hey, I survived labor without any epidural,right? That still astounds me.” I rolled my wheelchair through the kitchen with my pill bottles and a water bottle between my knees. It was comical and made me laugh because it reminded me of the pillow I jammed between my knees during my labor with Georgia. I was humming tunelessly as I made it to my kitchen table and set all the bottles down. “One, two , three, four, five,six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Perfect. Need to call Dr. Hennessy for my arthritis medicine script. I'm approaching ninety days, he's gonna have to write me a new prescription for it. Shoot, almost out of muscle relaxer too. That's becoming a necessary and standard pharmaceutical practice, especially now that I've had Georgia. Probably need to have the dose increased since 10 milligrams is barely helping these days.” I was thinking out loud. A un vida mejor. I whispered the Spanish phrase for To a better life as I tipped back my dose cup, just as I did on multiple mornings when I was living at Victoria House. Thinking of Victoria House made me think of Tommy and Prof, who was my former housemate Gary. That man was my favorite person in the place because he always found a way to make me laugh no matter how blue or angry I was. I missed him. I snapped back to reality when I heard Georgia cry. “Okay, breakfast. Ow, my breasts hurt. Shame I can't use them for what they're there for because of my medicine passing from my bloodstream into the breast milk. I can see the conversation now. It's so bad. It's not gonna happen. But at least now I look like I actually have a bust and chest. Such a shame that I had to be pregnant before it happened though. “ I prepped the bottle and tested the temperature on my wrist. Perfect. I capped it to avoid spills because, like everything else except Georgia, I had to put it between my knees to have both hands free to push my wheelchair. I heard her wail as I made it down the hallway to my bedroom. “Shh…Mama's got breakfast. It's gonna be alright. We're good. We're gonna figure it out. One day at a time.”, I whispered. Prior to coming home from inpatient rehab for my hips after my labrums were repaired, I ordered all my gear. I had my sister order latch mechanisms for the crib, and I made tons of phone calls for the purpose of ordering adaptive measures so I could take care of Georgia by myself. I bought equipment so I could have her attached to my chest or balanced on my hip while I was moving or feeding her. I was exhausted, amazed, and fierce daily. I exhaled as I mounted my brand new equipment on my body whilst I read the directions. Punctuating my reading was a wailing Georgia. Oh my God, she's got lungs. And I thought a master's of fine arts in English was hard. Boy, was I wrong. Survival of the fittest, Pixie, survival of the fittest. Adapt, overcome, and get it done. “All right, Miss Georgia Peach. Mom's got her new gear on and mounted correctly, she hopes. Let's get this show on the road.”, I said as I undid the latch for the crib and picked up my daughter. I picked her up with one hand under her head and one under her hips and butt, clasping her to me before I put her vertically into the carrier on my chest. Phew. It worked. It still surprises me how well my body seems to be handling this, at least the upper half. My hips are a different story. A week ago, I was in labor with and giving birth to the orthopedic size equivalent of a watermelon. I have to see Dr. Hamlin and make sure that my hips are still sound, which means I have to find someone to help me with Georgia on that day. Same with psych and physical therapy days. The new gear is so nice. Makes things better and so much easier. Now I can take her with me and she doesn't have to stay in my bedroom unless she's napping. Let's get breakfast done. She's hungry and I'm tired. I had a million thoughts on my mind as I fed Georgia. “Wow, slow down babe. Hungry much?” She was taking to the bottle like an animal does to meat. It was empty in two minutes flat. I adjusted my spit rag on my shoulder as I picked her up. “Okay. Let's take care of that excess air, shall we?” I was stupidly happy as I said this. I tapped her lightly on her back until she belched like a man. “ Georgia, my earth, my sky, whoa. Wow. Amazing how something that loud comes out of someone your size. As your grandma Tammy would say: Did ya get anything on you with that one? Spit rag’s clean. Awesome. Now, if I could get you to nap so I could write my MS for this evening around Uncle Beckman's table, it would be amazing. But, you don't want to leave Mama today, so Mama is going to take you with her to type her MS in her office. Before we do that, The Art of the Change, starring Miss Georgia Peach! Not as bad as Labor and Bloodstains, starring your mother, ME! Hahahaha! My goodness, I need to quit doing that. Turning events in your life into movie titles is extremely strange.” I said this while I put Georgia back into the carrier on my chest and rolled my wheelchair to my bedroom. I was becoming a well oiled machine, most notably gifted in the process of changing diapers. I was done in five minutes, which with my sometimes questionable hand dexterity, surprised me to no end. “Perfect. All that typing and Life Skills practice in occupational therapy paid off. Even when I went back while I was still in hip rehab. Who knew?” I smiled as I tossed the diaper into the trash, picked up Georgia and put her back into the carrier on my chest. I looked down at her afterward, sleeping, her little fist curled and resting on my chest. I loved her so much it hurt. I couldn't imagine a day without her now. “Maybe now I can get my piece typed for this evening. Don't have time to draft though. If her pattern holds, I have two hours before she'll be hungry again and crying.” Patterns held. Georgia started crying after two hours. I needed a break anyway. I couldn't write anything,at least not anything related to the theme for the evening. “Mama's got you, Miss Georgia, yes she does. Shh. It's okay.” I crooned softly, as though I was singing. “Mama's comeback is going to be a disaster. I’ve missed so many Wednesday evenings. The last one was because I was in labor with you, my lovely darling daughter. Now I can't stop thinking about how much of a trainwreck my body is right now orthopedically long enough to write. What a shame that is. Uncle Beckman said I needed to put my brain power elsewhere years ago when my hips were so bad I didn't think I'd be able to get my English degrees because all Mama could think about was losing her shot at them. He's part of the reason why they're on the wall above Mama's desk. He actually came to see me on the day of my surgery, which was also the day I found out that I was eight weeks pregnant with you, my darling Georgia. That man is truly a great man, colleague, mentor and friend, which is why you're named after him.” It was eight PM before I got Georgia settled down enough to write my piece for the evening. I got it written ten minutes before LinebyLineTime met. George did his usual “Gather ‘round the table and introduce yourself” greeting post and I didn't know what to say. I settled on this: I’m Brittany Alexus McFadden aka Pixie and I am an exhausted, glowing, stiff-hipped bullhead who is now mother to an equally bullheaded baby girl named Georgia. Nineteen hours of labor and two hours of pushing brought my darling daughter into the world in one piece. Now my bathroom looks like the Boston m******e because that is where I finished the process. Ay. Slow golf clap. How's everyone else been? There were congratulations all around, and George asked for pictures. I said I couldn't because she was finally sleeping, and I was trying to get through LBLT without waking her. Critique came and went, and as usual, I held my own. George DMed me afterward and it caught me by surprise. The message read: Hey Pixie. I know you're in the middle of things, but you did extremely well tonight, especially since you've been gone for so long. Remember to celebrate the little things.-Prof. I replied back: Thanks, Professor. I'm just celebrating the fact she's alive and in one healthy, non- disabled piece. I was scared out of my mind. God, I almost delivered her in the middle of my bathroom floor. Absolute disaster. Made it to the bathtub instead. Still wearing out the bloodstains. Thanks for this evening. Talk soon and I'll see you next Wednesday evening. Love you, Prof.-Pixie. I barely got the message typed out before I heard Georgia cry. Two hours on the dot. I've got you, my darling. I know you need me. Mom's here. I promise. I rolled away from my desk and to my kitchen. Bottle, water, two scoops of formula, n****e, shake, test temperature on my wrist, cap. Perfect. I was reciting the steps to the bottle making process out loud because I was exhausted and I couldn't remember anything. I was just going on autopilot. I had been functioning on less than three hours of sleep since I had Georgia. It reminded me of the time I had spent at Victoria House. Late nights and early days were consistently part of my life and daily routine then, except instead of running on three hours of sleep, I was usually running on six. This was because of my hips and the fact that I was trying to get my writing career off the ground. I had been functioning on four hours of sleep while I was in college, studying hard, going to class, and usually writing all hours of my day. I couldn't remember or recall a moment since leaving St. Margaret Hospital that I didn't have a pen, book, notebook or my tablet in my hands. My wheelchair wheels squeaked on the hardwood floor as I rolled into my room. My daughter's full head of brunette hair poked out of the top of the blanket as she laid there in the crib. She had my hair, Tommy's eyes, and a set of vocal cords rivaling her grandfather Thomas Joseph McFadden Jr. in volume, but mine in pitch. That's why I cringed when she'd scream. The screaming reminded me of me in pain as a child. It nearly broke my heart because I felt the past come back every single time. With any luck, I wouldn't repeat it. With her birth, I already hadn't. Looking at her there, a week old, my heart melted. It was worth everything. It was worth the fear, my stiff hips, the lack of sleep, and whatever else happened next. Tomorrow was her first appointment with the pediatrician. I prayed she'd be fine because I hated doctors and bad news. I didn't want to have to do what my mother had to do with me. I wasn't quite strong enough yet as a mother, or so I thought.