When Breasts Aren't Best

Allow me to introduce you to The Cousins, The Girls, my boobs: Mad Dog and Priscilla. Named by my husband years ago, Mad Dog is a rebel who has a tendency to try to slip the confines of her fabric prison, while Priscilla is a bit of a princess. These wondrous globes were gifted to me by the good Lord above so I could feed a baby or two.   

The Girls were super excited last week to be recognized (if anonymously) because it was World Breastfeeding Week as well as the opening of National Breastfeeding Awareness Month. This meant my social media feed was awash in posts about taking "time to kindly educate people" about how breastfeeding is "a fulfilling and magnificent accomplishment" that is "easier with support."

Except when it's not.

The plain truth that most doctors and support organizations don't come out and say is that sometimes, some women can't breastfeed. Or that not all babies can or want to or will. Had I known this, perhaps I would have felt like less of a failure when it didn't work for my son and me.

Women receive enormous pressure to nurse -- from all sides, often under the guise of "education." I find it difficult to swallow (pun intended) that in America any childbearing-age female would be ignorant of the health benefits of breastfeeding. Almost from the moment you get a positive home pregnancy test you are bashed over the head repeatedly with messages warning you that your offspring will be fat, dumb, and sick if you don't breastfeed him or her. I think there is a sky-writing service that is hired to fly above your house that writes "breast is best" in the heavens. It's perfectly timed -- you see two pink lines appear, then suddenly hear the drone of a prop plane just beyond your bathroom window.

Nope, no pressure here.

It's in the literature your OB hands out at your first appointment, in posters displayed in the hallways of the facility where your birthing classes take place, and even in ads you receive from formula companies. "Breast is best, but if you choose to formula feed..." For nine entire months, all you are told is that you absolutely must breastfeed for your health and the health of your child. Buried in the pile of paperwork you bring home from the hospital along with the baby are more handouts -- the benefits of nursing, how often to pump if you choose to, the fact that formula-fed babies have been shown to have lower IQs and more ear infections than their breastfed brethren.

Nobody gives women an out, an acceptable reason to quit trying or not try in the first place. I understand why -- even under the best circumstances, nursing is a full-time job of giving your body over to another human being who literally sucks you dry. It's a challenge, and if you offer even the tiniest excuse many more might opt out. However, all this "it's the only way" hoopla is a big disservice to those moms who try desperately and fail without being prepared for the possibility of that failure.

The only notice I received that breastfeeding might not go smoothly was during my first OB appointment after a positive pregnancy test. My doctor was performing routine exams -- a visual inspection of my cervix and a breast exam -- when she casually said, "You may have trouble breastfeeding. You have flat nipples."

Do what now?

I got 99 problems, and my nips are one.

I had gone 32 years of my life thinking my Sweater Puppies were just fine. (Well, maybe not in junior high and high school before I "blossomed" -- I wished them bigger back then.) Large enough to be noticeable if I flashed somebody at Mardi Gras, but not so large as to be confused with dinner plates, I assumed my nipples were completely acceptable. I never received any complaints. Maybe I rarely, if ever, appeared to be smuggling tic-tacs under my shirt, but I considered this a blessing. I didn't want to be one of those women who walked around constantly flashing her high beams at unsuspecting friends and acquaintances. Mad Dog and Priscilla prefer to keep it low-key.

My doctor and I never again discussed nipple shapes -- flat, perky, trapezoid or otherwise. I took a breastfeeding class, read some how-to guides on Pinterest, bought a fancy double electric breast pump and some lanolin cream (which the dog later ate) and all the other must-have accessories. I thought I was all set.

When baby finally made his appearance, it was less like the birth scene from Knocked Up and more like the elevator scene from The Shining. I lost a lot of blood -- a lot -- and the doctors worked extra hard to stabilize me before I was strong enough to hold the baby. As a result, I wasn't allowed to snuggle him up to my bare chest and begin the natural "rooting" process (code for The Seeking of the Boobs) within an hour of birth as recommended by doctors. Instead, I was in the recovery room for four hours enjoying an impromptu D&C followed by an iron infusion and a heated blanket.

Once in my postpartum room, I tried repeatedly to get this tiny human to do what he was supposed to do and latch on. No dice -- he wasn't interested in either Mad Dog or Priscilla. A nurse came by to fondle me and smash the baby's face against my boobs repeatedly, in case she knew some technique I didn't.

There's a thing called the Hamburger Hold. For real.

We still failed, so she showed me how to hand-express colostrum -- that liquid gold all the "lactavists" rave on about -- so the baby would have something, anything, to eat. The next day a lactation consultant (that's a thing) came in to try her hand. Still nothing; the baby wouldn't suckle. She got me set up on an industrial-strength breast pump to simulate nursing so that my milk would come in. I felt like a heifer hooked up to a  milking machine, except no milk came. I continued to squeeze my boobs like toothpaste tubes and use a small plastic pill bottle thing to catch the drippings, which my husband then drew out with a teeny 1cc syringe and squirted into the baby's hungry mouth. On the second day, the day I left the hospital, lactation consultant #2 came in to help. No amount of cajoling or begging or threatening could get the baby to nurse.

This consultant offered me a set of nipple shields -- sombrero-shaped latex hats for your nipples. Ole! This was supposed to dress up my flat boring nipples as fun Mexican nipples and mimic the shape of a more pronounced protuberance, which would rub on the roof of the baby's mouth and stimulate his sucking reflex.

Both are fun at parties, but only one of these is a medical device.

She also broke out the formula -- oh good lord! the humanity! -- as well as a spaghetti-thin plastic pipe called a nasogastric tube and a syringe big enough to make a horse feel faint.

I was sent home with instructions on how to fill the syringe with formula, attach the NG tube, insert the tube under my sombrero shield (*insert a few bars of the Mexican Hat Dance*), and try to get the whole contraption to stick to my nipple with a strong enough seal that the baby would nurse. The idea was that gravity would bring the formula down through the tube and into the baby's mouth so he got some nourishment, while the sucking action would encourage my natural milk to come in. It was a two-person job -- one to hold the baby and the breasts (that was me), one to hold the syringe full of formula (that was the hubby). And then I prayed like hell that the baby's flailing arms and thrashing head wouldn't dislodge the shield, spilling formula all over me, the baby, and the Boppy pillow. And I tried to soothe the tiny, angry human who just wanted a full tummy so he screamed and wailed. And I cried a lot because the four of us (if you count Mad Dog and Priscilla) just couldn't get this right.

It was an exercise in frustration, failure, hunger, and exhaustion. Repeated every 2 to 3 hours. I vividly remember standing in my living room crying because I was a horrible mother who couldn't feed her child and could only find one of his socks. After a day or two I decided to go to a breastfeeding support group. In the midst of a circle of bare-chested women who nursed their children easily, lactation consultant #3 tried to get my baby -- the only baby who mattered -- to latch on like all the pamphlets and brochures and websites said he would. He obstinately slept through the entire thing. At the conclusion of the hour, I was sent home with a bigger set of sombreros (ole grande!) and told to keep trying. No one told me what to do if it didn't work.

I lasted maybe a week, then broke down in the middle of another midnight feeding rife with angry hungry baby, spilled formula, and tears. With resignation I poured the formula into a bottle and let him eat until he was full. Blessedly, completely full. From that point on, we fed him formula at night, while during the day I abandoned the NG tube and horse syringe in favor of pumping exclusively.

For the next two weeks I drank gallons of water, took Fenugreek herbal supplements that made my pee and sweat smell like maple syrup, and pumped every 2.5-3 hours. I still couldn't produce enough milk to satiate the baby's appetite for one feeding, much less store up any leftover milk for later feedings. And I continued to cry often at my failure to do this thing my body was designed to do.

To add insult to injury, the night before my husband was supposed to return to work Priscilla developed mastitis. She was red and angry, burning hot to the touch, and so painful I could hardly lift my right arm. I knew then my boobs were trying to kill me. With a fever of 104 degrees, working on three hours of sleep at a stretch, I actually started to hallucinate that there was a demon in my living room who had come to steal the baby.

I had two choices: keep trying to breastfeed and quite possibly lose my mind, or surrender to formula feeding, alternate shifts with my husband, take a Xanax to calm down, and begin to function as a (relatively) stable mom who could (mostly) take care of her child. I chose the latter.

And you know what happened? Nothing. No ear infections, no obesity, no slack-jawed drooling while staring at dust motes in the sun (at least no more so than other kids his age). No one would look  across a playground of children and be able to pick him out as one who was formula-fed. There will not be a question on any upcoming college applications asking whether he breastfed. No work promotions will be based on how long he nursed. He survived, and he will flourish.

So sometimes breast is best, but formula feeding is an excellent second option. Priority #1 is feed the baby -- no matter how. Where's the month for that?