Naomi's First Story
I really, really wanted to breastfeed. My breasts are incredibly small, and I was so excited about them finally being "useful" in some way. And I did everything "right": While still pregnant, I bought and read the La Leche League’s Womanly Art of Breastfeeding (a book I grew to hate later). My husband and I took a breastfeeding class together. Breastfeeding support was key to our selection of a pediatrician. We hired a doula for the post-partum period who was an ardent and experienced breastfeeding advocate. Our "biggest- ticket" baby-related purchase was a nursing-friendly glider rocker. Julian was born after a long and difficult labor, then hospitalized for a week for suspected sepsis. The hospital bent over backward to accommodate my desire to breastfeed, allowing us to camp out for free in an empty hospital room and calling me to the neonatal intensive care unit to feed our son whenever he woke up. I met many kind and knowledgeable nurses, doctors, and lactation consultants that week who helped me with positioning and nipple soreness and assured me that Julian had a textbook latch-on and sucking reflex. But certainly the harsh lights, beeping monitors, sterile chill, and lack of privacy of the NICU made for a less-than-ideal environment to start breastfeeding.
Perhaps the trauma of these events administered a shock to my system that permanently derailed breastfeeding for me. I’ll never really know what happened. But I knew very early on, after only a few days, while J. was still in the hospital, that there was something very wrong with my milk supply. At first everyone (nurses, doctors, birth coach, husband, relatives, friends) pooh-poohed my concern, but as Julian’s weight dropped and dropped, they quickly divided into two camps: those who urged me to stop breastfeeding immediately, and those who insisted I was doing something wrong and if only I’d fix it, breastfeeding would work. The truth was that I simply was not capable of producing enough milk. I’ve learned since that many things can cause an insufficient milk supply: a poor latch-on and sucking reflex in the baby, severe maternal hemorrhage during birth, or a retained placenta. None of these applied in my case, but there are harder-to-pinpoint causes: hormonal imbalance, low thyroid function, and, I understand, rarely, insufficient growth of primary glandular tissue in the mother. Since my breasts are so small I've naturally suspected the latter. My body thought it was lactating: I didn’t start menstruating again for nine months.
I was convinced that once Julian and I got home things would right themselves. And once there I devoted myself full-time to the task: At our pediatrician’s recommendation I stayed in bed for three days with the baby and did nothing but nurse. I eliminated other stresses: I was waited on hand and foot by husband, doula, and my own mother; ate marvelous, nutritious meals; did no housework; and allowed few visitors. I rented a top-of-the-line breastpump that I used between feedings (rarely producing more than 10 cc’s). I made very sure I wasn’t dehydrated. Fenugreek is said to enhance milk supply, so I dutifully ingested gallons of fenugreek tea and many fenugreek pills. I tried the occasional beer. I massaged my recalcitrant breasts and "visualized" my milk letting down. Warned by breastfeeding advocates of the dire consequences of giving my child a bottle, I tried supplementing formula with an eye dropper; it took an hour to get one ounce into him, and the dropper tip scratched my already sore nipples. I bought a "supplemental nursing system", and used it at every single feeding for two months. I consulted numerous lactation specialists, and pored over every nursing reference I could find. Meanwhile I nursed and nursed but I never produced more than a few ounces a day.
The supplemental nurser and my obsessive use of it did manage to establish a limited breastfeeding relationship. When Julian was six weeks old my breasts leaked milk for the first time and at about eight weeks I finally experienced the sensation of "let-down." The SNS is marvelous for a short-term milk supply problem, but impractical for an intractable, long-term problem like mine. (One incident of not screwing the cap on tightly enough in the middle of the night and spilling formula all over the bed was enough to consign it to daytime use, and that too became onerous as time went on and I needed to get out of the house more often.)
Eventually I settled on nursing Julian at every feeding for the few minutes’ worth of milk I had, then following up (or my husband would) with a full bottle of formula. My limited milk supply dwindled more when I returned to work at six months, and at about nine months Julian decided he’d had enough.
Was it worth it? I still don’t know. I think I’d have had no peace of mind unless I gave it my best shot, but I ruined so much else in the process. My memories of the first months of Julian’s life are clouded by my unhappiness over this. I felt terribly betrayed by my body, a ridiculous reaction when my body had just managed to produce a beautiful little boy. And I felt judged by everyone around me. One nurse in the hospital struck me on the shoulder and declared, not nicely, "You just need to relax. That’s your problem." Our doula suggested that the problem had to do with how career-minded I’d been before the baby’s birth. In those early weeks, even visits with our wonderful pediatrican and well-meaning phone calls from relatives were like being on trial: How much weight has the baby gained? How is he eating? Are you still trying to breastfeed? At my weekly new moms group meetings the other mothers breastfed with aplomb and commisserated with each other about nursing bras and leaking through breast pads and engorgement while I fiddled miserably mixing up formula and taping the supplemental nurser tubes to my nipples. One week we took our newborns to a local museum and I discovered to my horror that I’d forgotten to bring any formula. As Julian got hungrier and fussier I finally had to explain to the group that I had to leave. One of my friends then asked, in all innocence, "Can’t you just breastfeed?" I had to choke back angry tears as I replied that I couldn’t, and when I got home I sobbed and sobbed.
I considered writing about my unhappy breastfeeding experience when Julian was four months old. But as I pulled out all of my references on breastfeeding to collect my thoughts, I was overwhelmed anew by my disappointment and by the lack of support—from breastfeeding advocacy groups, their counselors, publications, and web sites—for women in my position. At that point I sought therapy for my depression with a wonderful counselor specializing in postpartum issues, who managed to help me concede that unsuccessful breastfeeding did not make me a bad mother. My sadness over this lingers, however. Just last summer, months after Julian had taken his last few drops of breastmilk, I felt a stab of pain while talking with an adoptive mother who’d managed to produce about 20% of her daughter’s milk supply through using the supplemental nurser—far more than I’d managed with the same contraption, despite being supposedly hormonally programmed to function otherwise. And late last year when I shared this experience with another on-line parenting-issues discussion group I belong to, I was distressed when several of the more outspoken breastfeeding advocates on the list wrote to praise me for my "heroic" efforts for my son, when my point had been that occasionally, being a good and sane mother means giving up on breastfeeding!
In retrospect I can’t help but wish I’d had a more devil-may-care attitude and just abandoned the nursing enterprise early on. My son would have had none of the benefits of breastfeeding, but he would have had a happy, more engaged mother. Today, he’s a healthy, bright, and happy two-year old who seems none the worse for having been a mostly formula-fed infant. I'm expecting my second child in November of '98, and although I'd like to try breastfeeding again, I'm going to be very flexible about it. I do wish, though, that I knew *why* I produced so little milk the first time. I found that all the experts, after blaming me for not trying hard enough (!) had nothing to offer me by way of explanation. If I really don't have sufficient glandular tissue, I wish someone could tell me that now so that I can just make my peace with that and plan on bottle-feeding the next kid.
Read Naomi's Second Story...
Perhaps the trauma of these events administered a shock to my system that permanently derailed breastfeeding for me. I’ll never really know what happened. But I knew very early on, after only a few days, while J. was still in the hospital, that there was something very wrong with my milk supply. At first everyone (nurses, doctors, birth coach, husband, relatives, friends) pooh-poohed my concern, but as Julian’s weight dropped and dropped, they quickly divided into two camps: those who urged me to stop breastfeeding immediately, and those who insisted I was doing something wrong and if only I’d fix it, breastfeeding would work. The truth was that I simply was not capable of producing enough milk. I’ve learned since that many things can cause an insufficient milk supply: a poor latch-on and sucking reflex in the baby, severe maternal hemorrhage during birth, or a retained placenta. None of these applied in my case, but there are harder-to-pinpoint causes: hormonal imbalance, low thyroid function, and, I understand, rarely, insufficient growth of primary glandular tissue in the mother. Since my breasts are so small I've naturally suspected the latter. My body thought it was lactating: I didn’t start menstruating again for nine months.
I was convinced that once Julian and I got home things would right themselves. And once there I devoted myself full-time to the task: At our pediatrician’s recommendation I stayed in bed for three days with the baby and did nothing but nurse. I eliminated other stresses: I was waited on hand and foot by husband, doula, and my own mother; ate marvelous, nutritious meals; did no housework; and allowed few visitors. I rented a top-of-the-line breastpump that I used between feedings (rarely producing more than 10 cc’s). I made very sure I wasn’t dehydrated. Fenugreek is said to enhance milk supply, so I dutifully ingested gallons of fenugreek tea and many fenugreek pills. I tried the occasional beer. I massaged my recalcitrant breasts and "visualized" my milk letting down. Warned by breastfeeding advocates of the dire consequences of giving my child a bottle, I tried supplementing formula with an eye dropper; it took an hour to get one ounce into him, and the dropper tip scratched my already sore nipples. I bought a "supplemental nursing system", and used it at every single feeding for two months. I consulted numerous lactation specialists, and pored over every nursing reference I could find. Meanwhile I nursed and nursed but I never produced more than a few ounces a day.
The supplemental nurser and my obsessive use of it did manage to establish a limited breastfeeding relationship. When Julian was six weeks old my breasts leaked milk for the first time and at about eight weeks I finally experienced the sensation of "let-down." The SNS is marvelous for a short-term milk supply problem, but impractical for an intractable, long-term problem like mine. (One incident of not screwing the cap on tightly enough in the middle of the night and spilling formula all over the bed was enough to consign it to daytime use, and that too became onerous as time went on and I needed to get out of the house more often.)
Eventually I settled on nursing Julian at every feeding for the few minutes’ worth of milk I had, then following up (or my husband would) with a full bottle of formula. My limited milk supply dwindled more when I returned to work at six months, and at about nine months Julian decided he’d had enough.
Was it worth it? I still don’t know. I think I’d have had no peace of mind unless I gave it my best shot, but I ruined so much else in the process. My memories of the first months of Julian’s life are clouded by my unhappiness over this. I felt terribly betrayed by my body, a ridiculous reaction when my body had just managed to produce a beautiful little boy. And I felt judged by everyone around me. One nurse in the hospital struck me on the shoulder and declared, not nicely, "You just need to relax. That’s your problem." Our doula suggested that the problem had to do with how career-minded I’d been before the baby’s birth. In those early weeks, even visits with our wonderful pediatrican and well-meaning phone calls from relatives were like being on trial: How much weight has the baby gained? How is he eating? Are you still trying to breastfeed? At my weekly new moms group meetings the other mothers breastfed with aplomb and commisserated with each other about nursing bras and leaking through breast pads and engorgement while I fiddled miserably mixing up formula and taping the supplemental nurser tubes to my nipples. One week we took our newborns to a local museum and I discovered to my horror that I’d forgotten to bring any formula. As Julian got hungrier and fussier I finally had to explain to the group that I had to leave. One of my friends then asked, in all innocence, "Can’t you just breastfeed?" I had to choke back angry tears as I replied that I couldn’t, and when I got home I sobbed and sobbed.
I considered writing about my unhappy breastfeeding experience when Julian was four months old. But as I pulled out all of my references on breastfeeding to collect my thoughts, I was overwhelmed anew by my disappointment and by the lack of support—from breastfeeding advocacy groups, their counselors, publications, and web sites—for women in my position. At that point I sought therapy for my depression with a wonderful counselor specializing in postpartum issues, who managed to help me concede that unsuccessful breastfeeding did not make me a bad mother. My sadness over this lingers, however. Just last summer, months after Julian had taken his last few drops of breastmilk, I felt a stab of pain while talking with an adoptive mother who’d managed to produce about 20% of her daughter’s milk supply through using the supplemental nurser—far more than I’d managed with the same contraption, despite being supposedly hormonally programmed to function otherwise. And late last year when I shared this experience with another on-line parenting-issues discussion group I belong to, I was distressed when several of the more outspoken breastfeeding advocates on the list wrote to praise me for my "heroic" efforts for my son, when my point had been that occasionally, being a good and sane mother means giving up on breastfeeding!
In retrospect I can’t help but wish I’d had a more devil-may-care attitude and just abandoned the nursing enterprise early on. My son would have had none of the benefits of breastfeeding, but he would have had a happy, more engaged mother. Today, he’s a healthy, bright, and happy two-year old who seems none the worse for having been a mostly formula-fed infant. I'm expecting my second child in November of '98, and although I'd like to try breastfeeding again, I'm going to be very flexible about it. I do wish, though, that I knew *why* I produced so little milk the first time. I found that all the experts, after blaming me for not trying hard enough (!) had nothing to offer me by way of explanation. If I really don't have sufficient glandular tissue, I wish someone could tell me that now so that I can just make my peace with that and plan on bottle-feeding the next kid.
Read Naomi's Second Story...