Breastfeeding in Seven Acts
Act I: Let It Begin
I was terrified. I knew this was the "right" thing to do. Everything I had read told me I "had to" do it.
Antibodies. Nourishment. Only the best of the best. I had inverted nipples so I feared failure.
I should have feared pain.
The first picture is Lou's first latch.
She fed on the left breast for 40 minutes. How was I supposed to know I had to switch? I had done all the classes but she seemed so comfy.
When she let go, my nipple was cracked and blood pearled at the tip.
Act II: Bloody Sunday
After two days of breastfeeding, I couldn't bear to think about putting her back on it.
So I pumped. Barely anything (which is TOTALLY normal for the colostrum, but I didn't know that.)
The ounces make it so obvious that it's not enough. How could she feed on 10ml at a time?
But I kept pumping. And I kept feeding her my milk in a syringe. I didn't sleep. But I pumped.
Act III: After the Lactation Consultant
We drove to the hospital to see her. She was old, cold, and yet firm and gentle.
She confirmed my kid had a good latch.
That my nipples would heal. She prescribed APNO cream (a savior.)
Promised I'd heal.
I hated how hard it was.
But my milk came. And my tits expanded.
I felt almighty. Broken and almighty.
Act IV: Carrying On
Once it was established that I could (sort of) do it, Lou wanted to feed all the time and everywhere.
I was nervous. I couldn't go anywhere because I feared she'd need to eat.
I saw a woman once at Target simply lifting her shirt and feeding her baby while she strolled the alleys.
I wanted to be her so badly.
I longed for simplicity and ease.
Act V: Failure to Thrive
Lou wasn't gaining enough weight.
On one particular pediatrician appointment, a random doctor told me, without even looking at me, "You milk is not enough. Just supplement." She dumped a case of Similac onto the exam table and left the room.
I cried for two hours after it.
Then I wanted to die.
Act VI: Healing
One week after, I drove to North Carolina to be admitted to a psychiatric ward.
After the steel doors shut behind me, I began pumping like a madwoman. I fought the sleep-aid medicine and woke up every two hours to pump. I cried silently in the bathroom because the anti-anxiety meds had lowered my milk supply.
Nurses would leave tissue boxes on my bed and pat me on the back.
Their fridge was full of my milk, but when Mike would come with Lou, he’d tell me how hungry she (still) was.
I felt defeated. Awful. Like I was failing again.
The nurses understood.
After a few days, they allowed me to go outside with her and Mike.
I promised to return.
And nursed my baby peacefully. Began to be ready to heal.
Act VII: Onward
After I was released, I found another pediatrician (a nicer, gentler one) who confirmed that Lou was not indeed gaining enough weight and had a growth restriction.
He suggested supplementing but said that it didn’t have to be forever. That I could get back to breast only in a month or so. That it wouldn’t last.
He also suggested solids: cereals with breast milk and formula, and sweet potato puree, that I could stomach.
I was still feeding her. Just differently.
I was still a good mother.
Then one day, I found myself eating crab with one hand and holding my nursing baby with the other. She drank my milk and ate crab meat— like a good Marylander, just like her father. I laughed and told the woman at the next table to f*ck off and look away if she didn’t like to see my kid eating.
My baby was growing and I was not just surviving anymore: I was living.