A Tale of Two Boobies

Never really know when the revival of breastfeeding started again in these recent years.  This breastfeeding movement preaches benefits for both baby and mommy.  In addition to containing all the vitamins and nutrients your baby will ever need in the first six months of life, breast milk is said to be packed with disease-fighting substances that protect baby from illness and boost baby's intelligence. Breastfeeding is also said to reduce mom's stress level, risk of postpartum depression, weight gain, and breast and ovarian cancers. 

Somewhere along these tantalizing propaganda to breastfeed, I was brainwashed by the Boob Nazi. Breast milk, GOOD.  Formula, BAD. The volume of milk became not only a sheer amount of food source for baby but also appeared to be a measurement of how good of a mother you are as a provider for your child.  (Since men are usually breadwinner of the family, shouldn't they be the ones to provide breast milk, too?)  

Nothing could be more beautiful or natural than a picture of a soft baby suckling the nectar of motherhood from its mom's bosom.  As soon as the child is placed on the mother skin-to-skin right after birth, this God-given capability is initiated.  Oxytocin rushes in all the feelings of love and nurture one could ever muster.  Look down at this miraculous creature that not too long ago was just a figment of hope.  Caress every delicate feature and marvel the resemblance of you and your partner.  Ah, yes. All the glory of motherhood and pride of womanhood triumph at that precise moment.

Or is it?

Having had to supplement both of my older babies soon after their first month, I was determined to have a 100% boob baby this time around.  I started my research on lactation soon after I learned of this pregnancy.  I'm nothing but good at researching, and research I did.  Whoever said that raising a subsequent child is like raising a pig certainly did not apply to me.  A lot of new techniques and strategies sure have updated since then. 

The research started out innocently enough with reviewing racks of both English and Chinese literature on producing more milk.  The Americans tend to favor galactogogue while the Chinese lean toward food source.  I extended my research to discover remedies from India, Europe, the Philippines, West Indies, Mayan, etc.  But somehow my search took a wrong turn and landed in Thailand where the transgenders use phytoestrogens to grow female-like bosoms.  (Men technically have the same breast structures as women.  All they need is a little hormonal push to kickstart male lactation.) Nevertheless, it just goes to show you that boosting milk is a global issue and have been for centuries.

One common denominator of all those homeopathic remedies is to put baby at breast as often as he needs. I followed suit. But no literature ever warn you that an infant's suction device may or may not be compatible with your lady parts. 

My lady parts were just fine and dandy, thankyouverymuch, but not so Baby's suction device, according to one lactation consultant.  It appeared that his frenulum is a tad short, which might cause some latching issue.  As we debated whether to correct this issue medically, pondering on both the short-term effects on feeding and the longitudinal effects on speech for Baby, my bust started to act out. 

At first there were the milk blisters.  Those tiny bleb not only inhibited flow but also restricted supply.  They look quite like freshly grown pimples, ripe enough to be popped. However, the picking of these blisters wasn't as liberating as picking a facial pimple.  The only effect way to get rid of these blocked nipple pores was to use sterilized needles to drain them.  Yes, you read it right.  Needles.  Poke.  Ouch.  The gruesomeness of sticking a needle point to one of the most sensitive parts of the body sure was not what anyone had signed up for.  (Men, however, should definitely try putting theirs to use.  Why have nipples if you ain't gonna use 'em?)

Ah, and there was engorgement that accompanied those milk blisters.  Since the opening was blocked, the flow of milk was backed up - but the production hasn't slowed down, yet - ultimately caused the storage units to be overflown.  It was like two balloons filled with too much water ready to burst, except that these balloons felt like two heavy rocks.  "Stone Boobs" is what they are so affectionately coined in Chinese.  Imagine having your bladder so full but cannot go to the bathroom.  Now imagine having two fully loaded bladders but your urethra is cement shut.  

Then there's cracked nipples, which is no laughing matter.  It was a result of continuous friction and poor positioning of mouth and tongue that ultimately lacerated those sensitive tips. The lubricant properties of saliva did nothing to sooth the cut but made it far worse. No relief was gained from trying out different brands of cream, lanolin or not. Although I did not bleed enough to produce any "strawberry milkshakes" for Baby, the soreness was enough to beg for mercy.  (Seriously, fathers, why have your wife do all the work? Man up and drop a few ounces!)

A call back to the lactation consultant granted me a tube of Neosporin.  The wound healed quite nicely, but the relief was short-lived.  A strange pins-and-needles sensation began to pulsate here and there.  Then the pain grew exponentially.  No exaggerations were made when this pain was described as worse than labor pains.  It was as if there were hundreds of microscopic screws, not needles, mind you, grinding and drilling into the flesh.  It would be a little durable if the pain level remained constant, but it wasn't.  The sharp pain would sting by surprise, here and there.  The pain level had been an underlying 6 with bouts of kicks of 8's, followed by a fistful of 10's. If the cracked nipples had me begging for mercy, this pain had me seriously begging for amputation.  It felt like the cancer itself was gnawing and tearing on every breast tissue.  The excruciating pain burned so much so that I wanted to tear off my top and scream across the street in the cold midnight just to get some medicine from a 24-hour pharmacy.  It turned out that although the antibiotics in the Neosporine healed the nipple, it also caused yeast infection on the breasts.

All these events snowballed whence I shouldn't breastfeed due to Baby's deformed device to now that I couldn't breastfeed due to my malfunctioned mammilla.  Not only could I not breastfeed Baby directly for the fear of transferring the yeast infection onto him, my milk supply dwindled.  The aforementioned benefits of breastfeeding promised by the Boob Nazi, reducing stress and depression, were replaced ironically by stress and depression.  My dream of feeding Baby on-demand & on-the-go, never having to wash any bottles, never needing to carry a whole luggage full of feeding accessories, and snuggling with a little warm baby was shattered again and again. 

Not wanting to surrender in this breastfeeding battle so easily, I've succumbed to be hooked up by the pumping machine.  Determined to save every drop of this precious liquid gold (Move aside Starbucks.  Did you know that this stuff is sold for as much as $4.00 USD per ounce?) but not wanting to be handicapped by the availability of one single electrical outlet, the need to be pumped every 2 to 3 hours, and the embarrassment of sporting a leaky-boob printed top, I lugged the machine anywhere from cars to public rooms.  In order to make the most out of this 30+ minutes, I multitasked like nothing else.  Tasks might include tutoring one child's math homework, teaching violin to another child, feeding baby with a bottle, paying bills, and writing lesson plans at the same time while pumping. 

Now that the amount of expressed milk was in plain sight, the desire to output has never been stronger.  Watching the milk gather in the bottles drop by drop was oddly satisfying. But my milk was just enough to feed Baby for a 24-hour period, which was much more than what I had previously for my first- and second-borns already.  But I felt the greed for more milk every time I heard the monotonic rhythm of the pump with its systematic tuck-and-pull.  Besides, a child grows, and so does his appetite.  Pretty soon, Baby's demand surpassed my supply. Increased pumping sessions and increased liquid intake weren't going to cut it. 

How I've always envy those ladies whose freezers are stocked full with pumped milk.  These milk goddesses have bags and bags full of milk labeled with the date and time when their milk is expressed. It is more than enough to feed an army of infants. They are able to wean themselves before they wean their babies due to their plentiful supply. These are ladies who has successfully produced hundreds of gallons of milk.  Gallons!  Gallon is their unit of measurement while I've stayed pathetically in the measly ounces.  They not only satisfy the hunger of their own children, they use the remaining milk for goodwill donations or for making soap. Some produced too much that they had to throw away the leftovers.  Heck, they could even bathe in their own milk if they wanted to, I'm sure.  

By reverting back to the aforesaid remedies, my counter top now looked and smelled like an antique apothecary cabinet.  My self-prescribed herbal list ran longer than a tired old New Year's resolution list. I was swallowing capsules and ingesting tinctures left and right.  I was gulping down herbal teas around the clock and drinking soup like a fish. There are certain things a nursing mother silently endures.  It didn't matter that I was forbidden to eat many of my favorite dishes.  It didn't matter that I still wasn't able to sleep tummy down or even sideways. One source said to squeeze them like lemons; I squeezed mine until they turned into limes - bruised, that is.  Worse yet, no literature ever warn you that one woman's antidote may or may not be another's.  When I read incredible reviews of certain remedies that had doubled their supply overnight, I gladly jumped on their bandwagon and willed my body to do the same.  But the volume of my milk have stayed faithfully at the same level. 

So now, at 12 weeks, I have come to accept the fact that a milk cow I am not.  I am relieved that I am at the half-way mark until the arbitrary 6-month mark when Baby could potentially start solids.  I've come to term that formula is not my enemy but a friend in my times of need.  I am forever amazed at this voice-controlled automated milking mechanism that God has wonderfully designed.  And by watching Baby gulping down that part of me I so laboriously produced is rewarding enough that keeps me going. 

It was the best of times, and it was also the worst of times, it was the age of hope, it was the age of loss, it was the season of control, it was the season of chaos, it was the epoch of pain, it was the epoch of comfort.  And even though nothing went according to plan, I wouldn't trade it for anything else. 

P.S. In case you couldn't tell, I strongly support male lactation.