Frozen Gems

Is it too late to celebrate world breastfeeding week three years after you last nursed?

While my daughter hasn’t breastfed in nearly three years, if you were to search through my freezer, underneath ice packs and bags of chicken nuggets, there you would find a small tray of frozen milk, preserved like pearls in an oyster. You would look at these gems and likely wonder why on earth they are still taking up residence in my freezer. I, in turn, would probably get a wistful look in my eye, maybe even become a little teary, and launch into the story of my breastfeeding journey.

***

As a former foster mom who had no other choice but to formula feed, breastfeeding wasn’t an issue I cared about deeply when I was pregnant. Sure, I wanted to try and I hoped it worked, but I had seen firsthand how formula wasn’t the enemy of a mother’s love, so I held my plans loosely.

Fast forward nine months to early September and like so many other notions you hold before having children, the idea of formula feeding went out the door the second I nursed my daughter for the first time.

After all those years of infertility and my body not working like it should, nourishing my baby from that very same body healed some of the brokenness I carried within me. Possessing the ability to meet her needs, both emotionally and physically, with an observable outpouring of love produced solely by me was a skill I reveled in. And though I relished holding her in my arms, a part of me ached for the bond we shared while she was still in my belly. Breastfeeding restored some of the primitive connection I had grown so accustomed to over the past nine months.

I made it my mission then and there to breastfeed for as long as I could, ideally for at least a year. Suddenly, this new goal was now my priority.

These convictions, however, were soon muted by a relentless, incurable pounding in my head not 24 hours after giving birth. No amount of repositioning or medication would subdue my throbbing skull. That pain, paired with the inherent discomfort ushered in after giving birth and learning to breastfeed, made it difficult to nurse my baby as often as I wanted. I knew she needed to eat every three hours, but beyond fulfilling that duty, all I could focus on was the ever present headache threatening to consume me.

The hospital attempted several remedies, but nothing sufficed. At discharge, a nurse wheeled me to the curb and murmured apologetically, “I hate sending you away like this.”

“Then don’t!”, I wanted to scream. But I could only muster a weak grimace.

After less than 48 hours at home, my cousin, who works as a labor and delivery nurse, caught wind of my symptoms and told me I likely had a spinal headache from my epidural. She instructed us to go back to the hospital and ask for a blood patch¹. We followed her orders and six hours later, I was on my way to feeling like myself again.

Throughout the whole ordeal, Luke supplemented bottles of formula whenever I didn’t have the stamina or wherewithal to feed the baby myself. At the time, I didn’t mind (re: blinding pain), but looking back, I now know I missed critical hours of telling my body how much milk to produce—a battle I would fight for the next year.

***

By the time our first pediatrician appointment rolled around a few days later, I was pain free and newly determined to make our breastfeeding dynamic work. With a clear head, all those feelings I felt that first day rushed back and I knew breastfeeding was the right choice for us.

Which is why, when my daughter was not yet back up to her birth weight and the doctor flippantly instructed us to “just give her formula”, I balked. Of course, there was nothing wrong with this option—I was thankful for formula in the short term—but it wasn’t the long term solution I wanted.

If my years of infertility had taught me anything, it was the importance of a collaborative doctor-patient relationship, and this dynamic was not shaping up to be collaborative at all.

Not only was this pediatrician unsupportive when it came to breastfeeding, but I asked her three times, including when she made her rounds in the hospital, if she suspected my daughter of having a tongue tie, and each time she wrote me off. This, coupled with her lack of ability to explain the importance of my daughter needing to be back at her birth weight so quickly, was the impetus for us finding a new pediatrician.

When we arrived at Dr. Smith’s office, I knew I liked him immediately. He gingerly placed my newborn on the scale and did not show alarm at her tiny size or her decelerating growth chart. He simply asked what my goal was and when I told him I wanted to breastfeed as long as possible, he nodded and said “okay.” He scheduled weekly weight checks in his office and never once made me feel inept for the choice I was making².

With weight checks and a trusted pediatrician checked off the list, the next order of business was addressing the tongue tie I knew my daughter had, despite the former pediatrician’s denial.

Every time she nursed, it felt like tiny needles puncturing my nipples and her feedings were taking much longer than they should. She also cried pretty much any time she wasn’t nursing. I knew there had to be an underlying cause.

I FaceTimed my former boss, a fellow speech pathologist who specialized in oral ties, and she speculated that not only was a tongue tie present, but lip and cheek ties, as well. From her cursory observations, they even appeared to be class IV, the most severe classification³. She referred me to a reputable care team in the area and the dentist confirmed the initial findings before we started preparations for a revision⁴.

The day of the procedure arrived and as she led me to the waiting room, the dentist assured me my one-month-old was in good hands. She recalled how one too many parents had passed out during the procedure by way of explaining why I was not allowed to go back with her, but promised it wouldn’t take long at all.

Settled into the lobby’s leather chair, I allowed myself some retail therapy as a distraction from what was happening on the other side of the door. I had just pulled up a baby boutique’s website on my phone, when a dental hygienist popped her head around the corner and told me to come back. The procedure was over and my daughter had done great, she said. Relieved by the speed of the whole ordeal and that my baby didn’t seem to be in pain, I was only a little sad I didn’t have enough time to order any cute new onesies as a treat(ment) for myself.

***

Back at home, several times a day for the next few weeks, I snapped blue latex gloves onto my hands and carefully stretched my newborn’s lips, tongue, and cheeks. We both hated this ritual—her crying in pain, me crying for causing pain. Though I didn’t want her to associate the stretches with eating, before each feeding was the most dependable time of day to conduct them to ensure they were completed. I can’t help but wonder if this association between eating and pain contributed to her food aversions as a toddler.

After the surgery, slowly but surely, my third percentile baby began to work her way back up the growth chart. I secretly resented my friends with newborns who were starting to go longer stretches between feedings as I continued to nurse mine around the clock, willing the ounces to stick to her tiny bones and quell her constant cries. Surely, I thought, after the revision she will be in less pain and a happy baby will emerge.

I waited.

And waited.

Though her growth curve slowly ticked upwards, her mood did not. She still appeared uncomfortable all the time. During one of our many weigh-ins I consulted with our pediatrician, asking if I should try an elimination diet.

“I wouldn’t cut everything out at once because on the one hand, it might not work and you would put yourself through that for nothing. On the other, if it does work, cutting everything at the same time will make it harder to determine which one is the culprit. Start by picking the category that would be easiest for you to live without and we can go from there.”

After weighing my options, I decided to start with dairy. I had cut it out once before and I could do it again.

Just like after the revision, I noted a small improvement in my daughter’s temperament, but not enough to definitively say THIS IS IT!

In November, Dr. Smith suggested silent reflux as a potential offender. In my line of work I had learned to be apprehensive of antacids due to its side effects. I knew this was not a long-term solution, but he assured me we would only try for a couple of months. I agreed.

Fall turned to winter as I continued to go dairy free and administer daily doses of antacids. Just like with every attempt before, my daughter’s mood only marginally improved. But the ounces continued to pack on and even small breakthroughs felt like wins, so I persisted.

***

Sometimes being the only one able to provide comfort wore on me, as nursing was the only solution, other than Drake Lullabies, to calming her down. But other times, I savored the moments I could sneak away, just my baby and I. Those months were marked by a mixture of contentment and loneliness. Throngs of family and small talk escaped by slipping into a quiet room to feed the baby. Christmas Eve services spent sequestered away in a rocking chair, listening to the a cappella, candle lit rendition of Silent Night from the other side of the nursing room instead of shoulder to shoulder with family and friends. The epitome of bittersweet.

This dynamic wore on Luke, too. As foster parents, we split all of our foster son’s care equally. We both worked from home and established a caretaking schedule—me, watching him in the mornings before I started seeing clients and Luke, taking over in the afternoons, placing him in his “ baby office” AKA the baby bouncer in between calls and emails.

But now, the tides had turned. I was now a stay-at-home-mom and Luke had returned to working in an office. And as for offices, I could forget setting this baby in her “baby office”—it was in my arms or nowhere. My body was the only one providing nutrients and respite for our child. I was the one waking up in the middle of the night to feed her. I was the only one who could get her to stop crying throughout the day. There were times I desperately wanted a break while my husband longed to bond with his daughter.

Over Christmas, Luke and nearly his entire family besides me and the baby caught Covid. He spent the week between Christmas and New Years at his parents’ house to recover and keep us from getting sick. As we FaceTimed him holed up on his parents’ couch watching Band of Brothers at night with his dad, I had never envied a sick person more. I dreamt of getting in an accident, just a teensy one, that required a short hospital stint and hours of uninterrupted sleep before returning home like nothing ever happened.

In an effort to distribute the parental load, I pumped. Or attempted to pump. Every night, Luke would perform bath time duties and give the baby a bottle of pumped milk while I retreated to our bedroom to pump just enough for the next night. Before breastfeeding, I naively assumed my not-so-small chest would equate to a not-so-small supply. We even considered getting a deep freeze for all the milk we were sure I’d need to store.

Bless.

Instead, I produced just enough to feed my daughter throughout the day and pump one extra bottle. If I ever planned to be away from her for more than one feeding, I had to work days in advance to scrounge up enough milk to fill extra bottles. I never experienced the sensation other moms described of milk leaking and spewing everywhere. I had to earn and capture every drop.

***

Finally, as the old year turned to the new, my daughter’s disposition turned, too. Where once there had been only screams and cries, now smiles and laughter appeared. By February, all traces of the newborn who could never settle were gone and in their place was the happiest five-month-old you ever did see. Her weight was back on track, she no longer required antacids, and I was able to reunite with my beloved cheese and milk. At long last we had found our rhythm.

Never before considering myself a morning person, I now looked forward to our first nursing session at the beginning of every day. Me, sipping coffee and playing Wordle and Connections while my brain turned on. Her, suckling and patting her tiny hands against my chest. We would sit in that rocking chair for what felt like hours, nursing, reading books, and talking back and forth to one another.

When I reflect back on our breastfeeding journey, it is this memory I will treasure most and always associate with our nursing relationship. I would wade through all the trouble we had at the beginning again just to get to those months of bliss.

We continued with this well worn ritual—along with plenty of nursing sessions at beaches, dinner tables, zoos, parking lots, and more—for months and months. At long last, my initial convictions and reasons for breastfeeding did not coexist with strife. I was free to savor her tiny hand on my chest and delicate gulps in peace.

Of course, it wasn’t always a cake walk. I finally did get sick—not in an accident, just a stomach bug—but instead of finding respite in the hospital or someone else’s house, my husband or mom would bring the baby into my room to nurse while I could barely keep food down myself. But the big hurdles were behind us and we were on our way to making it to my goal of breastfeeding for one year.

***

When her first birthday rolled around, not only was I proud of crossing the one year mark as a mom, but of breastfeeding, as well. I celebrated one year of feeding my child on my terms and overcoming so many obstacles to make it happen. I cherished every moment we spent together and felt that even if she weaned the very next day, I would be content.

It was around this time Luke won an incentive trip for work that would send the two of us to the Dominican Republic for a few days. After years of waiting for a trip that allowed him a plus one, the time had finally come and he couldn’t be more excited. I was looking forward to the childfree long weekend, but also felt a bit trepidatious. Yes, I had made it to thirteen months by now, but I knew this trip would bring my breastfeeding journey to its end.

As a “just enougher” whose baby no longer depended on breast milk, I didn’t want to deal with the headache of pumping while traveling internationally when I knew I’d barely bring home enough to matter.

We had also just started talking with our reproductive endocrinologist about preparing for another embryo transfer and she told us I needed to be weaned for at least two months before moving forward. We were eager to start the process, knowing it may take more than one try. But now actually being faced with the decision, it all felt too real.

Ultimately, with all logistics considered, I decided to wean before we left on our trip.

For weeks I cut out one nursing session at a time until we were left with only my favorite—our morning feeding. That last day, I set up my camera across the room and filmed the entire occasion. I don’t remember if I cried or simply soaked in the moment. I can’t bear to go back and watch yet. But I’m so thankful to not only have captured the memory, along with countless other nursing sessions before, but to have known it was our last. As Andy Bernard says on The Office, “I wish there was a way to know you were in the good old days before you’ve actually left them.”

I knew.

***

Looking back, knowing how our IVF journey unfolded, I sometimes regret calling it quits when I did. Although I ended on mostly my own terms, had I known that would likely be my one and only chance breastfeeding a baby, I would have waited longer to wean. I would have let our journey come to a natural end rather than instigating the process myself.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit part of my reasoning for wanting another baby is not only to have that special nursing bond with a baby again, but to remedy some of the mistakes I made along the way in breastfeeding.

Of course now, years after my daughter nursed for the last time, when I rummage through the freezer to make her chicken nuggets for the third time in a week, it’s easy to wonder if breastfeeding even mattered. They all end up eating french fries off the floor at this age, right?

But it does matter, not just then, but now. I am eternally grateful for the bond breastfeeding forged between us and for the memories it gave us. I am appreciative of the ways breastfeeding taught me to trust my motherly intuition and fight for what I wanted. I am thankful to my body for working on overdrive to produce milk for over thirteen months. When I’m tempted to curse my feminine anatomy for all the times it has failed me, remembering how it sustained life for another human throughout pregnancy and her first year of life stops me. Instead of anger, I am filled with gratitude.

Which is why I hang onto those tiny pearls of breastmilk. They live in my freezer as a tribute to that time and a reminder of how real it was. They serve as tangible evidence of the ways the Lord provided for me when I didn’t think we could continue. They are testimonials. Ebenezers. My stones of help.

It was surprisingly, or maybe surprisingly, difficult to find any photos that don’t accost you with my boobs.

1. In case you, like me, had never heard of this, a spinal headache occurs when your epidural goes in just a littttllee too deep causing the cerebrospinal fluid around your brain to decrease. The cure is a blood patch, where your blood is drawn and then injected right back into your spine via another epidural to essentially seal up the leak.

2. I feel it’s important to note here that I also never felt like he was neglecting a serious problem in terms of her weight. He was exactly the right amount of concerned. I knew we were in good hands.

3. “No tongue tie” my a**, doctor number one. 😝

4. In an effort not to turn this into a dissertation, I spared you the details of what “preparing for revision” means, but as an SLP who received a crash course in tongue ties only once I was in the thick of dealing with my own child’s, I have lots of thoughts I’d love to share if you find your child needing a revision of their own.