Awakening from the blast

According to Merriam-Webster Dictionary triage is defined as, "the sorting of and allocation of treatment to patients and especially battle and disaster victims according to a system of priorities designed to maximize the number of survivors." This word best describes my life. For the last five years, my life has been a series of events that have demanded I sort, prioritize and reconfigure everything I have ever known, triage.

When life is a series of chaotic events, completing the simplest of tasks can become a massive obstacle. As I carried my thirty plus pound child with global developmental delays, microcephaly and hypotonia into the clinic, my arms and lungs burned as the oxygen flooded back in. I stood in front of the receptionists' station as Miss Fran and Miss Shirley checked in families. Miss Shirley looked up and smiled at me as I attempted to hang on to Charlie for dear life. He began to slide as I attempted to hang on to him, two backpacks, a cooler and a purse. (Did I mention we had to start bringing our own toys to therapy since we came down with thrush?) I sat him on the counter and he immediately began to pull and bite at my hair while rocking and scratching at my face. I couldn't hold back the tears. I stood in front of a waiting room full of people and cried.

See, just 20 minutes earlier I had realized I needed to switch cars because my temporary handicap placard was expired. It should have been simple. Put child in different car and go. But nothing is simple when you are "the mother of necessity." As the minutes raced by I packed a cooler, toys, AFO's (ankle foot orthotics), diapering supplies and my own purse. It was Wednesday. The bus was running late because it was raining. So once Charlie was unload, and reloaded into my husband's car, I left.

I pulled into the therapy parking lot just like I always do. In fact, I do it so frequently that I have become annoyed when someone else parks in the handicap spot I prefer to park in. On this particular day, I was pleased to find it empty. I flung my purse over my shoulder as I hopped out. I opened the hatch to discover, palm to forehead, I FORGOT THE WHEELCHAIR! My response was visceral, feeling as if the oxygen had instantly been sucked out of my lungs.

It is about 150 feet from the handicap spots to the receptionist station and then another 150 to the therapy guy. Immediately, I called my husband. He was bombarded by hysterical pants and incoherent babbles. Being the hero he is, he offered to drive the wheelchair to us. Unfortunately, it wasn't an option. See it was the second Wednesday of the month and that meant early release. He needed to pick our daughter up from school, hang out with her before taking her to swimming lessons. We hung up, I inhaled three times quickly and began problem-solving. I removed my phone and keys from my purse, shoving both into my front jean pockets. I donned two backpacks, a three year old and a cooler. I carried everything like a pack mule drenched in shame, the shame of not remembering the wheelchair. I mean, how could "I" forget the wheelchair? Wasn't I the "warrior mom" that fought through red tape and two different insurance companies to get it?

I cried through check-in. Those sweet women, Miss Fran and Miss Shirley, were so kind to me, offering to help carry our bags and allowing us to call ahead if we needed help carrying items. To be honest, I questioned my own worthiness of such treatment. You know, just following the triage protocol I had somehow established in my head. During the past five years, I've had sick spells and my own 'lows' but somehow, as caregiver, mother, advocate and problem-solver I had gotten so focused on "maximizing survivors" that I had been walking around in a daze, albeit high-functioning daze.

Since that Wednesday, I have found myself awakening from the blast. You know, ground zero? So much goes on in the "typical" day of a family with an atypically developing child. Every week there is a new catastrophic event the demands some sort of triage whether it be medicaid paperwork, grant applications, or managing information and correspondence between therapists, doctors and nutritionists. I am the mother of necessity. I must be fierce, tireless, passionate, creative, innovative and inventive, but most importantly I must be present and awake.