There's been a lot of talk about breastfeeding
in the media lately. That, combined with the fact that I'm reading a book on breastfeeding for my doula course (yes! I've started, and I'm so excited), has stirred some memories and brought up a lot of feelings that I hadn't expected to surface again.
I breastfed my son for nine months. There is some nice symmetry in that, I think--nine months in my womb and nine months breastfeeding. I would have gone on longer, but he wasn't interested anymore. It was a strange feeling afterward--I was happy to have my breasts all to myself again and yet sad that this stage of our lives together as mother and son had come to an end. Things would be different from now on. The physical bond was cut, and it was bittersweet.
Breastfeeding was something I saw as a sacred and mystical act from an early age. Did you know our galaxy was formed from breastmilk? At least, that's what the ancient Greeks believed. According to the myth, Zeus wanted his son, Hercules, suckled by an immortal (Hercules' mother was mortal--Zeus was such a cad!) and so, while his wife, Hera, was sleeping, Zeus put his infant son to her breast. Hera, upon waking and seeing the child, pushed little Hercules away, and her milk sprayed out, forming the stars that you see streaked across the sky on a dark night--the Milky Way (hence, the name).
I have a picture of me and D. sleeping in this exact same position!
I remember reading that story when I was a young girl, and the feeling of wonder it produced in me. Milk can produce stars? Well, that was definitely something I was interested in.
And then there are the many, many images of the Virgin Mary breastfeeding Jesus, like this one:
Yup, I had D. up on a cushion like that too. Even Mary used a Boppy!
And this one:
I like these two paintings (the first one by Andrea Solario, the second by Rubens) because both mother and child have a natural, easy pose. In fact it seems so natural and turns up in art so much that I often wonder why breastfeeding has become an issue at all...if our mothers never breastfed us, or didn't struggle through it (because it CAN be hard--it definitely was for me, at first--thank God for lactation consultants!) then the human race would have died out a long time ago.
Another thing I like about these paintings is that the mother and child are looking at each other. Yes, you can breastfeed while walking around, watching tv, whatever. But there are those moments where you look down at your baby and your baby looks up at you and everything else melts away. It is a type of physical intimacy, it is an unbroken circle of love.
And then, of course, there is the actress Salma Hayek,
being awesome and breastfeeding a stranger's sick child during a trip to Africa. I really love her for doing that. She shows that it means more than just sustenance, it is an act of compassion, a gift from one woman to another, an act of Love.
These are the stories and images that informed me. This is where I'm coming from. This is what breastfeeding means to me. It is a duty, it is a gift, it is magic. It creates.
And now I'm lying in that hospital bed again, and my doula is informing me that my milk is going to come in. It's going to come in even though my daughter was born dead. And the world doesn't feel magical or creative or giving anymore. And my mind is numb. And I am angry. After
all I'd just been through, I was still going to produce milk? Was this
some kind of terrible joke? As if giving birth to my sweet, still Sunrise
wasn't enough, I had to have this extra cosmic cruelty thrust upon me:
my milk was going to come in, with no baby to give it to.
For
a couple of days, not much happened. My breasts remained the same
size, I didn't feel any discomfort--but oh, on that third day things
started to change. My breasts were heavy and ached beyond imagining.
They literally felt like they were going to burst. I spent most of my
day crying and planning my daughter's funeral and I tried to ignore it.
I tried wearing a tight bra and putting cabbage leaves over my swollen
breasts to get the milk to dry up....but it just wasn't happening. Everytime I stepped in the shower at night, the warm water running down my chest would instigate letdown, and I'd see the drops of milk appear on my nipples and I'd cry all over again. My body had mistaken the warmth of the water for the warmth of a baby at my breast. I couldn't escape it.
I
remember sitting at my mom's kitchen table, feeling so sad, so empty inside, and saying, "I wish they
still had wet-nurses. I'd like to feed someone's baby. It feels like
such a shame to let all this milk go to waste."
And then I
got an email from my doula, and it changed everything. She said she
hesitated to mention it, not knowing how I'd feel about it, but thought I
should at least know that there were options out there: there were milk
banks I could donate to. And there was also this one amazing
organization, called
Human Milk 4 Human Babies
(HM4HB), a milk sharing community. They have pages set up for
different regions around the world. When a woman needs milk for her
baby, she posts a request on the page. When a woman has milk to donate,
she can post as well. Pick up or shipment of the milk is arranged.
I
can't tell you how much I LOVED this idea. It is women helping women.
It is based on compassion and empathy for mothers and their babies. It
takes a village...I became a part of this village. My milk wouldn't go
to waste.
My mom had bought me a breastpump before
Sunrise died but it hadn't arrived in the mail until after she was
born. My mom had been afraid to mention it to me afterward but I was
desperate and asked her, as we were driving to Sunrise's funeral, if she
had purchased one for me. She got this pained look on her face, as if
she didn't want to answer, but she said "Yes. I'm sorry! I'll return
it."
And I quickly said, "No! I'm going to donate my milk."
I
started pumping twice a day. Unfortunately, by the time I had decided
to donate my milk, my supply had started to dry out, so I don't think I
was producing as much as I would have if I'd started pumping right out
of the hospital. I told myself that I'd pump for a month, see how much
milk I ended up with, and then donate.
Honestly, it
made me happy, but it wasn't easy. Pumping was hard. Watching my milk
drain into a plastic bottle made me sad sometimes.
It should be going to my
baby,
I'd think. But then I thought about it simply drying up, all this
nourishment meant for Sunrise not being used for anything at all. I
thought of the baby who might one day benefit from this milk. I thought
of it as a gift, from Sunrise. It was of no use to her now, but it might
be of great use to another little life.
At the end of
the month, I had about 70 oz. stored in my freezer. Probably not a lot
for a month's worth of pumping, but it was precious. I posted an offer
on my local HM4HB page and was contacted by a mother who lived only a
few towns away from me. Her son was tongue-tied and couldn't suckle
properly, and she asked if my milk was still available. I said yes, it
was. Inside, my heart rejoiced.
I guess the point of this (very long) post is this: that there is something good amongst the pain of stillbirth, of losing a baby, that carries on. This milk being produced is sacred; our bodies will not forget our children or the fact that we are mothers. The milk still comes in. The pain I feel that Sunrise wasn't able to get her nourishment from me is turned into something else--the knowledge that even as I delivered death I was at the same time bringing forth sustenance. When I feel as though everyone forgets her, when I am sad because of what I have lost, I think of how my body did not forget her. My body remembered her and gave. It created.
