I starved my baby when she was first born. Not by choice, of course, but because despite my best efforts to breastfeed I couldn’t make milk. During my hospital stay, I wasn’t producing or progressing as the hospital staff thought I should. However, when I asked for formula I received a look from a young nurse that sent chills down my spine. She told me to keep trying. I felt ashamed and embarrassed that I couldn’t fulfill my newborn’s most basic need. I felt especially disheartened after seeing someone post on social media about a freezer full of breast milk they were able to produce. After another afternoon of minuscule production, we asked the night nurse to bring formula. It was given to us without further delay and my daughter chugged it like there was no tomorrow. All was right in the world.
The cycle of little production continued once we were home. I would nurse and pump as much as I could hoping for better results, but to bridge the gap I wasn’t afraid to supplement with formula. Eventually, my determination helped, but not by much. On a good day {not including nursing} I would produce anywhere from 10 to 12 ounces. We would nurse at night and bottle feed during the day. I had come to love my time with her during those overnight hours because even though I was exhausted it was our time. Our routine soon came to a screeching halt one night after I awoke to find that I couldn’t get out of bed. My knee was the size of a softball with shooting pain going through my leg.
Let me back up a bit here. When I was 18-years-old, I was a “medical mystery” for a while. Something similar happened. I had a lot of fluid arrive in my knee one night and was in excruciating pain each time I moved it. After draining the fluid, we thought all was well… until it came back the very next day. A year of doctor’s visits, steroids, lots of tests, homeopathic methods and massages later, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease: Rheumatoid Arthritis. A disease where you can look fine, but shooting pain fills your joints and you can hardly find the effort to move them. I opted to try a very new drug. The once-a-week shot helped regulate fluid and stave off the flare-ups. It worked! I was so happy to be a “normal” teenager again. Now, let’s get back to that awful night years later after entering a new phase of life, motherhood.
I had my husband go get my daughter and bring her to me for our nightly nursing session. I had begun to ugly cry because I hadn’t had a flare-up in a year. Did you know pregnancy actually puts rheumatoid arthritis into a temporary remission? My doctor even told me it may be permanent and never come back, and that breastfeeding helps stave it off for longer. I had hoped that would be the case. I was so emotional and upset. Once again, I felt like a failure because I wasn’t producing as much as I thought I should be, or as much as society told me I should be. I made an appointment with my doctor to see what options I had available so I could keep breastfeeding. Turns out, there wasn’t one.
I had a decision to make. Do I not take care of myself, and in essence, not be able to make it to my daughter in the middle of the night to take care of her? Do I give up our soothing middle of the night nursing sessions that I had fought so hard for? It wasn’t a question at all. I made the decision to call the doctor and have my prescription refilled. I stocked up on what I could pump and hoped it could get me through a little while longer. The next two days were almost unbearable. I couldn’t just hop out of bed or out of a chair when she started crying. I would fall down from the pain. I took my first shot within a week and within 24-hours I was back to my normal self.
Being able to freely move without pain didn’t make the decision any less difficult or numb my grieving process. I still felt like a failure for being unable to provide that basic necessity for my child. I had decided making enough breast milk for one feeding a day was better than nothing, but even that difficult choice was taken away from me. I felt betrayed by my body in so many ways. It was heartbreaking, but not the end of the world. This was the mantra I had to keep telling myself. I had fought so hard but still couldn’t measure up. Here’s the kicker though… my daughter didn’t know the difference in the food she was getting. She just knew she was being fed, and held, and loved, and that’s what matters. I wish it had been different, but in the end, I know I did the right thing. I had to take care of myself in order to take care of her.
So mama, if you find yourself in a similar situation, please remember you have to take care of you first, in whatever form that may take. Love them, hold them, and make sure their bellies are full no matter what method you rely on because that’s what matters.
