Surely my body would know how?

Dani

“Surely my body would know how to feed my little boy and make all the milk he needed…?”

I had a beautiful waterbirth with our first baby, in 2017. I had spent so much of my pregnant-time focussed on the birth, that I didn’t really consider the less talked-about postnatal time, or what it could mean for me if breastfeeding didn’t ‘just happen’ for us, as I assumed it would. When my baby boy was born, I felt he and I worked together as a team; he travelled purposefully out of my body and into the world and I guided him safely on his way. We did it together and I was overwhelmed with love when he landed into my arms in the water. There was no sense of panic; no fear or dread, just my beloved little partner in this effort and my body – doing what it should. After all, we had been together in this journey for the last nine months; my body loved him, knew him and sustained him, all that time. Surely my body would know how to feed my little boy now and make all the milk he needed?

Except it didn’t. To what turned out to be my intense heartache,

I couldn’t support my baby on my milk alone – and the weeks that followed his birth were a raw mix of wonderment at him and my new motherhood and a deep, gut-twisting pain that my body would not perform for me, as I felt it should. Even writing these words brings it all back for me and the tears come fresh to my eyes, as they did in those early, scary days. Even though I knew, logically, that I did everything I could and that my baby was never in any real danger from being underfed, my mothering instinct – my very identity as a new mother and as a woman – was so wounded by the experience of not being able to feed him, to meet his needs. On a primal level, I felt like it was my job to feed him and I just couldn’t do it.

Almost as soon as he reached my arms, my baby gained his focus; his eyes opening and finding mine, quickly followed by his initial instinct to find my breast. He latched on, in the water and we seemed to be off to a great start. My heart overflowed with love as he fed for a long time, both in and out of the water. However, in the days that followed, despite him feeding eagerly and often, I began to doubt that he was getting much, if anything from me. Certainly, he wasn’t getting enough.

We were discharged from hospital after two days and had midwife visits to our home, for that first week or so. Following sleepless nights of cluster feeding and a frustrated and tired baby, he would go on the scales and the verdict would come, that he had lost weight. Small weight loss is expected in this timeframe, with all newborns – but his was too much. We tried everything: all the advice given by care providers, pumping after every feed, domperidone – which is understood to increase supply – aroma- therapy, relaxation massage, ‘breastmilk cookies’ and nursing around the clock, often in a lot of pain. I felt desperate. Desperate for my baby to have enough to eat. I felt like such a failure as I gazed into his eyes. He worked so hard with me and I sensed him helping me to increase my milk supply. This tiny little being, all love and all trust, tried instinctively again and again to bring my milk in and he lay in my arms, for many hours.

But I knew, deep down, that his efforts weren’t working and there just wasn’t enough. Nothing worked. As day three became day six and nine, I was increasingly panicking and began suffering with deadening exhaustion – and he seemed to be getting still hungrier. Somewhere in these sleepless and blurred days, I suffered mastitis, blocked ducts and an abscess on my breast. My partner sat with me at night, while I cried, breastfeeding from one side, while using a hospital grade pump, on the other. We kept trying; feeding and pumping, feeding and pumping – and hoping things would improve. We even tried a hospital line feeding-aid usually reserved for premature babies – a tiny, thin straw attached to the nipple that gave him the extra expressed milk while feeding. This allowed him to consume pumped milk while stimulating further production at the breast.

Despite all of this, on the 10th day he had lost more weight than was considered reasonable. By now, we were desperately worried and took advice that this was the point to add formula to his feeding routine. He took to the formula like a champion. In fact, for him, he was happy to switch between breast and bottle and did so contentedly. In the days and weeks that followed, I offered him formula after every breastfeed and his weight stabilised and increased steadily. I began to accept that the formula was friend, not foe. But it still hurt. I had vivid dreams of being in the wild with my baby, not being able to satisfy his hunger. Fears crept into my sleeping hours of him being hungry. I thought of irrational things – what if we were in this situation 200 years ago? Before formula? How would my baby survive? It took a long time for those feelings to go away. I sought counselling for the anxiety that I experienced from some of the Australian organisations which support post-natal mothers. I was fortu- nate that such support was available to me to help me process the feelings of guilt and pain over the experience I’d had, trying to breastfeed my son. As I met new mothers like myself, I found that such things weren’t really talked about. Certain things are too painful and too private. Breastfeeding is a subject which evokes many strong opinions and feel- ings. Some women opt not to, while others feel it’s a necessity for them. Some have a wonderful experience and feel that they may not freely share that, with other mothers. Still others, like me, have heartache attached to the experience. I was lucky; I had a lot of postnatal support; a very loving partner and I was able to talk about my feelings and fears. I managed to breastfeed my son right up to seven months, which I felt proud of. I did the best I could and I know he got all the early milk I could offer and about half of his intake for his first few months.

I had our second child in 2019, a great, bouncing New Year’s Day arrival! I’d like to think I was a little more compassionate to myself with her, but I had the same supply issues and the heartache came along for the ride. It was only after her birth, that it was discussed between my clini- cians that I may have insufficient glandular tissue (IGT). I felt letdown and angry that no one had investigated this, the first time around. At the hospital where my daughter was born, a lactation consultant with rather poor comic judgement told me that I had “great boobs for T-shirts, but not for making milk”. Lovely.

I hope my story can help any woman who may be experiencing a sense of heartache. Love hit me like a train when I gave birth. I was a new, vulnerable mother and my emotions were very raw. I feel for any new mother who is tired and overwhelmed, during the early breastfeeding days. If I could wish anything for her, it would be to be kind to herself, keep an open mind about her feeding options and accept respectful help, where it comes. I would encourage her to feed her baby in the way she feels most comfortable, breast or bottle, or any combination of both.

Breastfeeding my babies was very important for me, but it is just one part of being a mother. I’ve learnt so much during the journey and I’m thankful to be able to process it in this way, by sharing it with others.