Like any good type-A mom-to-be, I did loads of research on birth, parenting, and breastfeeding. We took an in-depth breastfeeding class as a couple, and I was psyched. Ready. Nursing bras and pads purchased. Laughingly eschewed having some bottles & formulas on hand "just in case". I knew breastfeeding would be healthy! Economical! Help me lose weight! Help baby and I bond! Magical unicorns and puppies! I also knew it would be difficult, but I was more than ready to get going.
Then THE BIRTH happened, and both Mer and I were so logy and tired from IV fluids, drugs, and general exhaustion that when a nurse tried to get her to latch on the night she was born, she wouldn't. Ditto the next time we tried. And the next. I could get her on for a little bit, but even after we were both more awake and drug free, she'd fall asleep after juts a couple minutes and I'd have to keep jiggling her awake. I got differing advice from every nurse that came in to the room, and even from the lactation consultant: Wake her every 2-3 hours to feed. Let her sleep. And so on and so forth. Most of the time though, she couldn't latch on no matter how carefully the nurses and I positioned her. And she would get frustrated and start screaming to the point that nothing could console her.
I ended up doing what I thought I would never do: I asked for some formula to give her. She sucked it right down, snuggled in to me, and fell asleep. We kept working on feeding, and had a couple of successful feeds, but it was overall NOT going well and I was tired, frustrated, in pain, and not sure how to make it work. To make matters worse, by her 3rd day of life, she was getting thrush. Thrush is painful, and made her not want to nurse because it hurt. So I started pumping - we rented one.
We got Meredith put on Nystatin drops, which she hated the taste of, but the thrush continued to get worse. We tried supplementing the Nystatin with grapefruit seed extract (a natural antifungal/antimicrobial), but still, her entire mouth was coated with a thick layer of white and she SCREAMED every time we tried to feed. And my milk wasn't coming in - some, yes, but not the level you'd expect. So we continued to give her some formula along with the measly few CCs I was able to pump. The Nystatin didn't work, so our pediatrician put her on Diflucan, which has cleared things up right away.
Spent $$$$ on an appointment with lactation consultant. Bought milk-enhancing supplements. Pumped. Tried to nurse a squalling baby. Cried my eyes out. And repeat. Managed to get up to an ounce and a half to two ounces on some pumping sessions. Tried everything I could think of and that anyone else could think of.
Finally, this past Wednesday, something clicked in my head. I have fibromyalgia and Sjogren's Syndrome, a autoimmune disease that attacks moisture-producing glands in the body: tear ducts, salivary glands, etc. MILK DUCTS ARE MOISTURE PRODUCING GLANDS. A quick Google search yielded no results (most women with Sjogren's are well past childbearing years), but an email to my rheumatologist did: Yep. Pretty much no matter what I do, I will struggle with breastfeeding and a low milk supply. My paternal grandmother, who was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis at 19, apparently also had issues breastfeeding her two sons.
Although the confirmation of my theory was disheartening, it was good to know I wasn't doing something wrong. Still, I cried some more.
So, I'm going to keep up pumping and giving Meredith bottled breast milk and formula. It's not ideal, but any breast milk she gets is good. And seeing a milk-drunk baby sprawled out on my lap after a feeding, content to snuggle into her momma, makes my heart go ker-thump.
I love this tiny baby creature who snuffles in her sleep, grunts through feedings, makes "Blue Steel" faces at us, and prefers being held to sleeping in her bassinet or swing. And as long as she's growing and developing on schedule, that's the important thing. I'll miss the intimacy of breastfeeding her, but I'd rather bond with my girl and have a happy baby and a not-stressed-out-me than drive myself into an early grave trying to fulfill this idealized image of mothering I had in my head.
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