by Lauren Sams
But I didn’t say any of that.
‘So – how about we clean up that house of yours?’ Mum asked cheerily, back to picking at her kwin-oh-ah, which she hadn’t enjoyed as much as Prevention magazine had promised. ‘I don’t know how you can relax in there, it looks like a bomb’s hit it. And the kitchen . . . Haven’t you been using the Enjo I gave you?’
‘The hair removal thing?’
Mum tsk-tsked again. ‘It’s an anti-bacterial cloth, Georgina. Lord knows your kitchen could do with a wipe down. When was the last time you cleaned your oven?’
‘This oven? In this house? Or any oven?’ I laughed.
Mum stared at me, completely serious. This was a woman who bought a laminating machine so she could laminate her cleaning schedule and stick it to the fridge. She probably doused herself in Purell every time she left my house. ‘What do you mean?’
I shrugged, sighing. ‘I’ve never cleaned the oven, Mum. Like, I’ve never cleaned any oven. Can’t really see the point when I don’t cook.’
Mum’s eyes widened. ‘Right. We need to do some serious cleaning. I can’t have Pip living in a . . . in a petri dish of a house! It’s not right. Honestly, Georgina. When I was your age –’
‘What? What were you doing when you were my age? Getting married . . . again? Dropping me off at school, doing nothing for six hours and then picking me up? What were you doing that was so much better than what I’m doing? Honestly, Mum,’ I said, mimicking her sing-song tone, ‘I’m sick of you being so self-righteous. I’m doing the best I can. The house is clean, even if it’s not up to your military standards. Pip is fine. So I forgot to buy the nappies. Big deal. I have so much to do. I have so much to remember. I’m doing everything. You wouldn’t know anything about that because you’ve never had a job in your life. And you’re meant to be here helping me, but for the last two hours all you’ve done is tell me what a shit job I’m doing. And I’m not apologising for swearing, because I’m really . . . I’m really bloody angry with you, Mum.’
I drew a deep breath. I had never sworn at Mum before.
‘Oh, darling,’ she said, her face softening. ‘What’s going on?’ She reached across the table to take my hand again. ‘Have you got the post-natal thing? Depression?’
I shook my head. ‘No, Mum. I’m not depressed, I’m just . . . busy. I’m trying to do everything and it’s really hard. So I can’t take it when you tell me I’m a bad mum, or my house is filthy, or that I need to quit my job. Why can’t you just give me a break?’
She nodded. ‘You do need a break. I’m sorry, darling. I just don’t want Pip –’
‘What? You don’t want Pip to what?’ I was exhausted. Exasperated. What personal failing would she reveal now?
‘Nothing, darling. Why don’t you and Pip take a walk and I’ll head back to the house, spruce things up a bit. Have you got dinner ready?’
It was midday. Of course I didn’t have dinner ready. I took a deep breath and weighed my options. Head back home with Pip and stare at the mound of washing that beckoned as I tried to watch Jessica Jones. Or go for a walk in the sunshine and let my 60-year-old mother clean my house for me while I window shopped.
‘I actually don’t have dinner sorted. Nor do I have groceries in the fridge. I would love some help, thank you.’ I sighed.
Mum smiled. Pip burped.
Chapter 9
Another raging Saturday night in, waiting for Pip to wake up and feed. I was limp with fatigue, stretched on the couch like a starfish – only I don’t think starfish guzzle wine for dinner.
And I shouldn’t, either. I had been drinking way too much – for a normal person, even, and especially for a breastfeeding mum. While my GP had told me it was fine to have the occasional drink while I was nursing Pip, I knew I had taken her liberal allowance way too far. It didn’t help that Meredith popped bottles of champagne for achievements as slight as sending a viral GIF around the office. It also didn’t help that the only thing that calmed me after a day with Meredith, and then with Pip, was a glass of pinot noir.
With my laptop in front of me, I tried to think of three distinct ideas for columns. I had – by my calculations – about sixteen hours of Pip-free time to come up with something and get them all done, and that didn’t include time for sleep. Thank god for Mum’s herculean efforts. Our furniture was no longer covered by detritus; amazingly, you could actually see the floor (and, even better, it had been vacuumed and mopped). The fridge was stocked and Mum had made an exceptionally large and delicious pot of bolognaise. The shower glass was transparent again. Dirty clothes had not merely been washed, but folded, too. Mum had played ‘Round and Round the Garden’ with Pip (a game she never seemed to tire of) while I’d had a shower, one that lasted longer than two minutes, and actually managed to shampoo and condition my hair. I’d even had time to exfoliate, even though I knew I’d spend the next day undoing all the good work because I wouldn’t be able to stop touching my unusually soft skin. Whatever. I felt like I’d been in Maui for two weeks.
So now I had nothing to do but finish my work. And also start my work. But what should I write about? The column had been my idea, but now that I actually had to write it – of course – I was stuck. Every time I began to type I felt that familiar stab of writers’ stage fright and deleted it all.
I checked Instagram. Nina, who hadn’t been home in days, had checked into a place called Sandwich, which appeared to be some sort of nightclub–florist hybrid. She and Jed were probably contemplating exactly when they’d go home to have wild anal sex. Ugh.
Fuck it. I switched on the TV.
Half-watching an episode of Friends I’d seen about 4000 times, I felt myself drift into sleep. Every so often I’d open my eyes in alarm, sure I’d heard Pip stir, but discover it was only the sweet sounds of Joey and Phoebe bantering.
I must have drifted off entirely, because when I woke up, god knows how long later, it was because of The Pain. What was happening? I was freezing. I pulled the lounge throw over me, but I barely felt the change – it was like putting cling wrap on a mammoth. Then I felt it: my chest. It was on fire. More specifically, my nipple was on fire. I tore my shirt away from it – too quickly, it turned out, as a small plug of semi-dried milk came away with the fabric, making me screech. This was worse than the first time I’d gotten my toes waxed.
‘Ohhhhhhhhh my god,’ I groaned. I went to touch the offending tit, but the lightest brush felt like burning steel ripping into my skin. I was dying. I must be.
I called Nina. It was what I’d always done during medical emergencies (though, before this, my medical emergencies had amounted to the odd ingrown toenail and a bout of indigestion after too many cruffins).
It rang out. I felt my heart, so close to my burning nip, sink. I typed a message instead.
Neen. My boob is on
fire. Something is really
wrong. I need you to come
home. Please. G x
I waited. The fire blazed, and quickly spread over my whole chest. I tried to calm down, to slow my breathing and be zen and hope for the best. If I had ever paid attention during shavasana at yoga class, maybe I would have been more prepared for this moment. If I could meditate through the pain, I’d be fine. Instead, I was pacing the room, practically hopping from foot to foot like a cartoon rabbit, clutching at my overgrown, overheated right breast. I always thought I’d die in some dramatic way – a plane crash in a celebrity’s private jet, botched plastic surgery. But now I knew I would die looking like Bugs Bunny with an inflamed tit.
I checked my phone, frantic now. I needed Nina. A hot tear landed on the screen and it took me a moment to realise it was mine. Where was she? I couldn’t die alone. What about Pippa?
Nina, where the fuck are you? I typed furiously, panicking now.
Should I google my symptoms? I wondered what would come up if I typed ‘burning tit’.
The pain intensified.
I was going to die alone.
And
then, suddenly, I knew what I had to do.
El, boob is on fire. I feel
like I’m dying. Help.
Seconds later, I saw the screen light up.
Mastitis. I’ll be there in a minute.
*
Three hours later, I woke to find Ellie in full-on Grey’s Anatomy mode.
‘You OK?’ she asked as she applied a cold washcloth to my naked boob, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
I stared at her blankly and mustered a small nod. I remembered Ellie arriving, grabbing Pippa from her cot and placing her on my boob, and then only heat. So much heat. It had felt like my nipple had been picked up with sharp tongs and flung on the barbie, like a piece of meat.
Then there was some Panadol and Nurofen, carefully administered and followed by lots of water and clucks of concern from Ellie, who wasn’t sure ‘chemicals in the bloodstream’ were such a good idea while I was breastfeeding, but conceded that pain relief was more than necessary. I didn’t even have the energy to roll my eyes at her. And then I fell asleep.
Pippa was in the portable bassinet, the one that followed me all around the house like a silent R2D2, and the lights were dimmed. Ellie sat next to me, making shh sounds and gently pressing the face washer to my boob, which still felt intensely warm – unlike the rest of me, which was icy to the touch.
‘I think you passed out for a minute,’ she whispered. ‘Or –’ she checked her watch, ‘maybe an hour.’
I raised my eyebrows as high as I could and blinked.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked again.
I nodded, more determined this time. I still felt as if I might die sometime in the next forty-eight hours, but at least if I did, I had a friend with me now.
‘What’s mastitis?’ I asked. ‘You said mastitis, right?’
Ellie nodded. ‘You poor thing. I had it twice with Lucas. Hurts like a motherfucker, doesn’t it?’ The last time I’d heard Ellie swear was when they’d run out of Grey Goose at her hen’s party, an eon before Lucas. Mastitis must be serious.
‘Why does it hurt so much?’ I asked weakly.
El shrugged. ‘It’s an infection. As if breastfeeding isn’t hard enough, they throw this in the mix, too. And then you have to breastfeed through it . . .’
I opened my eyes in alarm. ‘What?’
Ellie nodded. ‘Sorry, George. It’s the only way to drain the breast.’
Drain the Breast. Wasn’t that a riot grrl band from the ’90s?
‘How long will it last?’ I sank back down into the pillows behind me, wanting to sleep but not quite sure if that was allowed. Maybe having mastitis was like being concussed?
‘Not long,’ Ellie said, too hastily for my liking. Seeing my face, she shook her head. ‘No, I mean it. It should be cleared up by tomorrow afternoon. Really. One time I went to sleep and when I woke up, it was completely gone. It’s like a weird medieval disease, honestly. Like something that should have been eradicated by now.’
I nodded weakly. ‘Like scarlet fever.’
‘Or smallpox,’ Ellie added. ‘Which, I believe, was gone until the anti-vaxxers brought it back.’ I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t wise to get Ellie started on anti-vaxxers (or, as she calls them, ‘medical terrorists’). She was a member of at least three pro-vaccination, anti-anti-vaccination Facebook groups. She’d weeded out all the anti-vaxxers in her own mother’s group by going undercover and convincing the likely suspects that she was anti-vax, catching them out and forcing them to leave the group. Ellie might use two types of fabric softener on Lucas’s flannelette sheets, but she was hard as a helmet on this matter.
‘Is there a vaccine for mastitis?’
Ellie raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Honey, if men got it, there’d be a vaccine. And you could download it or something, that’s how quick it would be.’
‘So, no?’
She shook her head.
‘How did I get it? Does Pip have it?’
Ellie stared at me quizzically. ‘Have you really never heard of mastitis? It’s pretty common.’
I shrugged. ‘No.’
‘OK. It’s just an infection. Don’t worry. Pip won’t have it, just you. It usually happens either right at the start of breastfeeding, when your boobs produce heaps of milk, or at the end, when your boobs don’t know how much milk to make anymore.’
‘Ah.’ I thought of all the feeds Pip had refused, the expressing at work with my stupid manual hand pump, the hour-long feeds in the middle of the night. I thought of the lactation tea Jane and the other mother’s group mums had bought me, the box that I’d dutifully taken to work and never opened. Was this my terrible penance for being a bad mother? ‘It’s my fault.’
Ellie shook her head. ‘Of course it’s not. Don’t be silly. Almost everyone I know who breastfed has had it. It’s just one of those things.’
I grimaced. ‘If I hadn’t gone back to work, I wouldn’t have got it.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘As soon as I went back to work, Pip just refused to feed – until 2 am, that is, when she feeds for an hour. And I’ve been using that bloody pump at work. I bet that’s how this all happened.’
‘Hey, hey,’ Ellie said, in her best Soothing Mum voice. ‘That’s not true. Babies go through different feeding needs – sometimes they’re hungry and sometimes they’re not. It’s not your fault.’
‘You don’t know that.’ I felt myself creep closer to the verge of tears.
‘Well, you don’t know it either. Maybe –’ she looked at me hopefully. ‘Maybe it’s time to stop breastfeeding.’
‘No.’
‘She’s eight months old. It’s OK to switch to formula. She’ll be on cow’s milk before you know it.’
‘No.’
Ellie sighed. ‘If it’s causing you all this grief . . . maybe it would just be easier to stop.’
‘No,’ I said, trying to hold back a sob in my throat. ‘No. I have to keep breastfeeding.’
I didn’t go to Rhyme Time. I didn’t go to playgroup. I didn’t have time to read books with Pip or help her practise her pincer grip or give her a baby massage. The only thing I had was breastfeeding. I couldn’t stop.
We sat there in silence for a few minutes before I remembered Nina.
‘Did Nina call? I messaged her. And called.’
‘No, not that I know of. Let me check.’
Ellie grabbed her phone, and mine too – but there was nothing from Nina. I had thought I was dying, and she was having too much fun to even call me back. Sure, we’d had a fight, but . . . that was all her fault. If she’d messaged me, afraid she was going to die, I’d have been there in a flash. I mean . . . I had been ready to have a fucking baby for Nina, and she couldn’t even text me back? An awful, selfish part of me felt, for a brief moment, that everything had turned out for the best. How could Nina be trusted with a baby when she couldn’t even return a text message?
‘Where is she tonight?’ Ellie asked.
I shrugged, not ready to put into words how furious I was with Nina.
‘You’re pretty annoyed with her, huh?’
I grimaced. ‘Yeah. Understatement. Huge.’
Ellie smiled and stroked my forehead, the way I imagined she might when Lucas was sick. Ellie was such a good mum. She always knew exactly what to do, and how to make things better. She had so much love to give. And she got shit done. She didn’t obsess over her stupid best friend (like I did), or worry about how she was going to fit everything in (me again): she just kept buggering on and did it all. It was amazing. I needed to be more like Ellie.
‘She said she’d help me out . . . but she’s never here. She didn’t even turn up to look after Pip when I was supposed to go on that Tinder date. But –’ a shot of pain interrupted me, ‘it’s not even that. It’s more . . . I thought we’d do this together. I know Pip is mine, and she’s my responsibility, but . . . I guess I thought Nina would want to be like another mum to her. I mean, she wanted to be a mum so badly s
he asked me to get pregnant for her. And now it’s like she wants nothing to do with any of it. She just wants to go out with . . . Jed.’
Ellie left the washcloth on my boob and sat back. ‘It’s been a big year for Neen.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘I’m a bit sick of people telling me that,’ I said.
‘George . . . look, I know what you’re saying, but Nina is grieving. She lost her husband and her baby. I mean, not an actual baby, but . . . the idea of one. She thought she was going to have a baby, and now she has to come to terms with the fact that it probably won’t happen. Her whole life is out of whack.’
‘I know all that,’ I whispered, like a sooky teenager. ‘But I thought that Pip would make it better for her. That she might forget some of the sad stuff and feel happy when she’s here. But she’s never here.’
Ellie scrunched up her face. ‘Would you want to be here, if you were Neen?’
I sighed. Would I? Would I want my best friend’s fertility flaunted in front of me, day in and out? OK. Maybe not.
‘Give her time,’ said Ellie. ‘It’s like we said – she needs to get all of this out of her system. Right?’
I nodded. ‘Right.’
‘And you –’ she said, her tone becoming more serious ‘– need to take better care of yourself. You look exhausted.’
‘I have a baby. This is just my face now.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing. Everything.’ I felt tears stream down my cheeks as Ellie pulled me in for a cuddle, careful of my boobs. ‘I’m so shit at this, Ellie. I didn’t even know what mastitis was. I’m such a shit mum. Nina can’t even have a baby and I can and I’m so bad at it. I don’t know anything.’
Ellie pushed me away and held me by the shoulders. ‘That’s enough. You’re not a shit mum. I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. You’re busy and you’re tired. But you are not a shit mum. Do you understand me?’