Lactation Stories: Razorblades Arrives

I’ve been meaning to write about my experience breastfeeding for months now. In honor of World Breastfeeding Week, it seems like I should get going on the project. I wrote a little introduction here.

I had a really wonderful natural birth which gave me the best possible start for breastfeeding. Elsa was born alert, furious and healthy. She was placed on my chest immediately after birth and was only separated from me for a few minutes, about 20 minutes after the birth (at my request: I HAD to know how much she weighed – she was a giant!). She promptly returned to my chest where she remained for the next three months.

After writhing around naked and having my vagina waving about for the past 2 hours, it was funny that I felt a little embarrassed about breastfeeding for the first time. Rather, I felt anxious that I really didn’t know what to do. We have the whole thing on video, so these are all direct quotes: About 15 minutes after birth, John asked, “Do you think you should try to . . . put your breast in her mouth?” My reply was, “I don’t know. Should I?” and I remember looking around, asking blankly, “Should I breastfeed her?” Given the situation down below and the previous 3 hours of total insanity, my brain was pretty scrambled.

I remember how awkward it felt trying to position her – meanwhile with my legs up in the air and my midwife stitching away. My doula tried to help, but it was not the oh-so-natural experience I had expected. Elsa was still furious about the whole ‘my-head-has-been-squeezed-in-your-vice-like-vagina-for-two-hours’ thing and seemed pretty uninterested. There was a lot of nipple pinching and yowling from the babe and, once my midwife was done stitching, she came over to help. She pinched my nipple into a “sandwich” and stuffed the meal into Elsa’s mouth.

Figuring it all out . . .

“Is it supposed to hurt this much?” My midwife and doula chuckled. This was added to one of the many ridiculous things I had asked that night: As I exited transition and my body immediately started pushing, I demanded, “Aren’t I supposed to get a break before I start pushing!?” About 5 minutes after she was born: “Is everything OK in my . . . vagina?” promptly followed by, “I’m still in some discomfort. Is that normal?” I was full of genius that night.

So she latched for a few minutes and didn’t really get much accomplished (which is normal). I handed her off to John so I could get cleaned up and dressed and experience the terrifying first pee, post-birth (which was actually not so bad). Once we shuffled down the hall to our room (at about 2:30AM), John and Elsa passed out and I remember lying awake, marveling that now, on the other side of childbirth, I was a totally different person. I don’t even remember if she nursed that night – the whole thing is a blur.

The next morning, my nurse asked if I wanted to see the Lactation Consultant and, since nursing still hurt, I said, “Sure.” Little did I know that this would be my first of many, many meetings with a slew of lactation consultants. I saw one in the hospital. When Elsa was hospitalized for jaundice for 24 hours, I saw TWO lactation consultants. Oh – and speaking of hospitalization for jaundice. . . that sucked. Here is a picture to prove it:

Goggles so my eyeballs don't burn? Check. Mitts so I don't scratch myself? Check. Gross bellybutton stump just for good measure? Check. Ready for the blue lights.

During all these meetings with lactation consultants, I had my nipples squeezed and flicked and I heard the same things over and over again:

Once we left the hospital after Elsa’s jaundice, we went home and were left to our own devices. Her latch looked OK, but I still had an 8 out of 10 on the screaming-nipples-scale. I took to joking with people that her new nickname was, “Razorblades Burmanetti,” – which would actually be an awesome mob name. The pediatrician told me, “You just have to get used to it. That’s why a lot of people give bottles.” My mom told me, “Oh yeah, it hurts like hell. Just grin and bear it and it will get better.” My mother-in-law looked at me, baffled at my persistence, and pleaded that I just “Give her the powder!”

And for a few days, I did just grin and bear it. Every time she latched, I closed my watering eyes, my toes curled and I marveled that something so natural and biologically necessary could be so horrifically painful. I kept saying to my dad, “It’s a biological imperative that this whole thing work. It MUST work.”

As the days went by, Elsa was sleeping more and more and eating less at each meal. She would suck for 5 minutes max and then drift off to sleep. No amount of cajoling, jostling or flicking her feet would wake her up (I couldn’t bring myself to try the ice cube tricks people had told me about). Her poops were getting watery and orange – not at all the yellow, seedy stuff that every nervous, new mom looks forward to like Christmas morning. She was getting frustrated every time she nursed – screaming maniacally while I tried to position her awkwardly. The whole thing was a total fracas: Elsa yelling, me trying to manhandle her into a comfortable position, John pinching my nipples into sandwiches and desperately arranging pillows strategically.

THIS WAS NOT THE EXPERIENCE I HAD IMAGINED!

I only remember snapshots of those desperate moments:

John giving Elsa a bottle of expressed breastmilk while I sobbed next to him, feeling like a failure.

A quiet moment breastfeeding Elsa, where we are both reasonably comfortable: John taking a photo of us so that we can use it at our next feeding for positioning tips. John, holding the picture for me to see, exclaims, “See – you are holding her head with your right hand and holding your breast with your left. Your left leg is crossed. This is exactly how we will do it next time, but reversed for the other breast.” A man of practicality and science, John was determined to find a foolproof positioning system.

This is actually that picture. Head in right hand. Breast in left hand. Left leg up. Oh - and notice my postpartum glow. Yuck.

More sobbing while I sniveled, “I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I hate breastfeeding her and I hate dreading being with her.”

Standing in the middle of the bedroom, soaked in milk, engorged like hell, miserable.

Fat. Leaky. Miserable. Don't let the smile fool you.

Finally after about a week of this, we called . . . . The Lactation Consultant from the Fifth Ring of Hell. Continued in, Lactation Stories: The Mother’s Group