My son was delivered at a Chicago hospital by a random resident who extracted him with forceps, which are rarely used anymore. Except for a few scratches on his face, my son was fine. My body, on the other hand, was completely wrecked. I had a near-fourth-degree laceration (Google it if you dare), which was sloppily repaired by the same resident (and without concern from the attending). I acquired a raging infection, and the repair broke down, leading to a hospital readmission, weeks of intravenous antibiotics, and a secondary repair done by an experienced surgeon. Oh, and months of agonizing pain and PTSD. Still, my priority—and, apparently, the priority of my care team—was that I should breastfeed.
But try as I might, my son refused to latch, and both he and I were hysterical.
During my first hospital stay, I had no idea what was going on, since my injury was never explained to me. I only knew that sitting felt like a bunch of knives were being shoved into my butt. I was made to believe that I had had a normal vaginal delivery and that establishing breastfeeding was the right thing for me to focus on now. But try as I might, my son refused to latch, and both he and I were hysterical. Finally, on our second night, I cautiously asked about formula. The nurse who was in the room with me at the time was clearly hesitant, which made me feel like a monster. Another nurse gave my son some formula, which he gratefully drank, while she informed me that my opportunity to breastfeed was probably over since he had taken a bottle.
The further demands on my body made me begin to wonder: If I were in a coma, with tubes coming out of me, would someone have pumped me so that I could still breastfeed?
Knowing what I know now, I would have replied, “That’s great! Because breastfeeding is not the priority! Don’t you know that I’m severely injured? Get the doctor to come examine me!” But at the time, I just cried harder.
When I was readmitted to the hospital with a huge, infected laceration, the nurses and physicians were still focused on breastfeeding. A pump and a fridge were brought to my room so that I could produce and store my milk. I was repeatedly told by one physician that if I did not pump every four hours, my milk supply would vanish. She told me to get a hands-free pumping bra from Target. How that would have helped with the excruciating pain I felt while pumping, I’m not sure. The disconnect between the care I needed and the further demands on my body made me begin to wonder: If I were in a coma, with tubes coming out of me, would someone have pumped me so that I could still breastfeed?
Why, I wonder, were the hospital staff so focused on getting me to breastfeed—so much so that they ignored and neglected the vastly more significant health issue that I was facing?
I was exhausted from the infection, from the medications, and from the shock and horror of discovering my birth injuries. Still, I kept trying to pump, while supplementing with formula. After about a week, the decision to stop breastfeeding was fortunately made for me. My milk supply vanished, probably due to a new and incredibly powerful antibiotic that I was given. My son became an exclusively formula-fed baby and began to grow and thrive. At one year old now, he is happy and healthy.
Why, I wonder, were the hospital staff so focused on getting me to breastfeed—so much so that they ignored and neglected the vastly more significant health issue that I was facing? In story after story, including mine, one hears about how the mother’s health becomes insignificant once she delivers the baby. Anything that can even marginally improve the health of the baby is obsessed over, while the health of the mother, no matter how poor, is neglected. This is only compounded by how our culture has developed an extremely pro-breastfeeding stance.
The question is, though, why should women who are struggling to breastfeed, especially those who have been traumatically injured in childbirth, even continue to try? I really wish that one nurse or physician had the humanity to say to me that feeding my child formula was not the end of the world. In fact, that it would be a really good idea. That it would be insane to try to be the sole source of nourishment for another human being while trying to heal from a severe injury.
I really wish that one nurse or physician had the humanity to say to me that feeding my child formula was not the end of the world.
Instead, I had to realize this myself. And I also realized that I loved feeding my son formula. His dad was able to feed him anytime and anywhere. So were his grandmas, his grandpas, his uncles, and his aunt. My body was also totally my own now, which I realized was very important to me. And, most importantly, my body was finally able to start on the (incredibly long) road to healing once I stopped breastfeeding.
Exclusive formula feeding is a perfectly valid choice, and one that I hope more new mothers—new mothers who are physically injured, suffering from mental health issues, exhausted, or just simply want to—will be able to make without shame or guilt.
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