An introduction to me...

My name is Katherine Reed and I’m mum to William (3) and Harrison (1). We live in Tasmania with my husband Tim on our farm. 

When I was 19, I fell off a horse and broke my back, leaving me paralysed from my chest down. While I mourned the loss of my ability to ride, my mum mourned the loss of my ability to have children. It turns out we were both wrong. 11 years later, I have gone on to ride again, to travel Australia solo, to represent my country in wheelchair basketball and attended ag college, all before coming home to Tasmania to settle down and have those babies my mum thought I’d never have.

My first son Will was born in 2016, and like new parents everywhere, Tim and I worked it out as we went. I tried to speak to as many women with spinal cord injuries as I could, to help learn what SCI specific issues I might need to prepare for, as well as any useful tips they might be able to provide. Unfortunately, I found there were few of these women to talk to and very little information to be found online. This led me to begin my blog, Para Pregnancy. I knew there were going to be plenty of other women coming after me who could benefit from my experiences.

I’m a complete paraplegic, at the level of the 4^th and 5^th thoracic vertebrae. I have pins and needles from half-way down my breasts and below, which meant I had to monitor a correct feeding latch by sound and sight, rather than feel. I can’t walk or stand, and my balance is impaired. My bowel and bladder care are managed by a combination of medications, timing, self-catheterisation (bladder) and suppositories and stomach massage (bowels). My bowel routine takes up to an hour most days. It’s sucks, but it is what it is. I also have trouble regulating my temperature and rely on a room thermometer to help know how warm to dress the boys, since I almost always feel cold. My reproductive system is not affected, so I can still menstruate and get pregnant as normal.

Because my body cannot feel pain or discomfort in the usual way, I have an ‘alarm system’ called autonomic dysreflexia. This means in painful situations (i.e. childbirth), I have to be careful to manage my pain. I laboured with both my boys, but for various reasons, both ended up emergency caesarean sections. I’ve written about both over three posts; here, here and here.

I’ve only ever been a mum in a wheelchair, so I don’t have anything to compare it to. I have many of the same issues as any other mum, so I just do my best to adjust to the situation. I find I often rely on strangers for help. I have to think ahead a little more sometimes. For example, there are only a select few spots in town I can park where I have flat access to both sides of the car in order to get both Will and Harry out safely. If they are all full, I might park where I have access to one side of the car, then recruit a passer-by to get Harry from the other side.

I need to be quite strict with Will about some things, like picking up toys in the walkways, so I don’t fall out of my chair holding baby Harry, and not to run away, since he can easily outrun me now. I very much pick my battles, allowing him to run and explore around whenever I can. We have a large house yard, so he is allowed a lot of freedom outside.

Often, I will be getting out of my car and someone passing by will comment on me, getting my chair out of the car. While I know they are just trying to be supportive and encouraging, I find it somewhat amusing, since I’m about to get two kids and a pram out too. Me operating the pram looks very impressive, but I promise you I find it quite easy. I keep one hand on my wheels and the other on the pram, alternating hands as I push one side, then the other. It does mean I travel in a bit of a zig zag until I get up momentum, but on a downhill we’re like a freight train!

When it comes to what equipment I’ve bought, a lot of my choice had been dictated by what I’ve had available to try out. We don’t have a huge range down here. The capsule we got was the only one I could get in and out of both the pram and car without assistance. We used a co-sleeper bassinet, so I could feed in bed and stay warm. Around home I used a regular pillow on my lap, so I could lay Harry on it (without him rolling off my lap) until he was big enough to sit up.

I find the word inspirational is overused. I know people are trying to be encouraging, but it’s my pet peeve. I’m not an extraordinary person, I just happen to be living a live many people (mistakenly) think is the worst thing that could happen to you. If I’d curing cancer, sure, but if it’s an activity completely ordinary without the wheelchair in the picture, I’d prefer ‘impressive’ or ‘interesting’. Of course, I can only speak for myself. I personally prefer people to talk to me, to ask their questions and learn, but many people with disabilities really don’t want to deal with this.

At the end of the day, I’m not much different to any other mum. I have good days and bad days. I always appreciate the offer for help, even if I don’t always accept it. I am also very aware of how good I have it. People can see my disability; they go out of their way to make sure I’m ok. We all have something that we struggle with, that makes some days hard for us.

Harry, Katherine, Will, Tim (& Pia the dog). 

You might look at me in my wheelchair and think you couldn’t handle it. You’d be surprised what you can deal with when you don’t have a choice. You might see my chair and think about all the things it stops me doing. In actual fact, that chair is what allows me to continue to live a free live; it’s my legs. And as anyone chasing a child escaping on a bike can tell you; wheels are a very efficient way to travel!



I was recently interviewed by Holly Wainwright for Mamamia's This Glorious Mess podcast. You can listen to that here. I managed to completely avoid talking about Tim the entire podcast. I tend to write mostly about myself and my experiences, but he is a very active part of our family, an excellent Dad and husband and absolutely deserves a shout out!

Paraplegic to parent

I was talking to a friend recently about parenting with a disability. Shelley and I have both spent many years using wheelchairs in order to lead a full life, (in her case for her whole life). We talked about how ingrained ableist attitudes are in our society, so much so that we even contribute to them ourselves. I met Shelley when we were both playing wheelchair basketball, a lifestyle that led both of us to really underestimate just how difficult it can be for people in Australia, living with a disability. We were both young, fit athletes, often traveling in a team. Now, as mums, less young, less fit, with a whole lot more responsibility and whole lot less support, we are seeing things from a different point of view. While Shelley used to be able to handle a couple of small steps, with a baby on her lap, those two steps are suddenly a whole lot bigger. We both find ourselves in situations where we have had to hand our babies to complete strangers, (something that is a risk in itself), in order to access parts of our communities.

A third friend, also an old team-mate, recently shared a post on social media about the way able bodied people talk to us about our disabilities. Now I am someone who has always been quite comfortable talking about my disability. I’ve always taken the attitude that the more people know, the better equipped they are to treat you appropriately. This post though, addressed the fact that what is actually happening, is a complete stranger is asking you a whole heap of incredibly personal and often invasive questions, with barely a ‘hello’ to preface it. How would we consider this appropriate behaviour in any other situation? Shelley shared how she was doing groceries one day when a woman stopped to say hello to her baby, before turning and asking her if she had a caesarean or vaginal delivery. I’ve had many people ask me when I was pregnant if I’d have to have a caesarean delivery. Now yes, woman often share our birth stories, but usually with people we know, or at the very least, within context. (God knows I probably share mine more than people want me to!)

By answering these questions, I’ve been reinforcing this behaviour. I don’t know how the next person they ask these questions will feel about it. We accept that sexual assault is a traumatic and personal experience and treat people accordingly. For many people with an acquired injury, their story can be just as traumatic (and it’s nigh on impossible to tell from looking at someone how long they’ve had their disability). For these people, to be asked ‘what happened to you?’ while going about their business, can be just very distressing. And don’t get me started on ‘what’s wrong with you?’. I actually lead a very full and happy life, the only thing ‘wrong’, is societies perception of my ability.

I find it secretly amusing when someone sees me out alone and offers me some encouraging words, telling me I do a good job getting my chair out of the car or some other mediocre task. I know they mean well, but it just shows how little we expect of people with disabilities. I’m capable of so much more. I find it amusing because I wonder what those same people will think next time they see me, with my two small children- we do live in a small town, after all.

I think my disability makes me a better parent. I know it makes me a more considerate, patient and empathetic person. I know I can take an extra breath (most of the time) when I watch my toddler struggle to get dressed, because I have a very real understanding and memory of how frustrating it is learning to do those things. Learning to dress yourself again as a 19-year-old is a very humbling experience. I am reminded of myself trying to learn to sit up again, to roll over, to shuffle across the floor, reach for something out of my grasp, as I watch my babies struggle to do the same.

I will still answer peoples questions, because I still believe that the more we know, the better we can respond, but I feel the need now to also gently remind people to consider if they would ask an able bodied person such intimate details, or how they’d feel if a stranger approached them to ask them such personal questions.

Now, I’m off to go fill out a highly invasive, totally irrelevant NDIS questionnaire…