My Breastfeeding Journey
When I finally became pregnant, I didn’t think that I would become what I call a “breastfeeding warrior”. I simply thought I would feed the babies and do whatever was in their best interest.
My journey started when I was 24; I was with my ex husband, who had paraplegia. Our fertility journey began with in vitro fertilization due to his disability. If I had a crystal ball, I would have realized that my own fertility journey was beginning due to the course of events that were about to unfold. It was easier to let him shoulder the reason for our infertility at that time.
With two fresh embryo transfers, and one frozen, we were still without a pregnancy. Being 26 at the time, we decided to move on. I remember the fertility doctors commenting that I had “sluggish ovaries” since I was producing a minimal amount of eggs even on the highest dose of FSH. At 28, the marriage ended and while I recovered, I looked forward to becoming a mother “naturally”.
With a new partner, we began trying to conceive when I was 30. Due to my scars from my first journey with infertility, part of choosing my new partner was his family’s fertility history. One of six children, with each sister being a mother. I was excited to finally become a mother.
So began my second infertility journey. Eventually, the twins were conceived via Clomid and IUI. I carried the twins to 37 weeks and 4 days. I was 33 and had been on an almost decade long journey with infertility. Along with this came crippling anxiety, irrational fears, and constant worry about the babies.
Being pregnant with twins, I rationally knew that I might need help with feeding them. I was very open to receiving help and supplement what I could not produce. I was eager to get the babies out since I began to worry about squished cords, etc. The moment they were born, the real anxiety set in and I realized they were much safer inside me. Hence, I was very particular who could hold them, nevermind feeding them!
After my cesarean section, in the recovery room, a baby was put on each breast and my breastfeeding journey began. I was surprised at how much it hurt. I wasn’t anticipating pain. After a couple days in the hospital, my nipples were both scabbed over, I remember cringing when they latched; my sister encouraged me that it would pass. In the hospital, my son was losing weight, tremorous, and fussy. My daughter had jaundice and needed treatment. A nurse came in one night and helped me with the hospital pump, weighed the babies, and based on my son’s weight loss, suggested that we supplement. I remember, at that moment, my babies were 2 days old and I already felt like a failure. It hit me that not only did I not want them to have formula, I had a hard time with anyone giving it to them.
After my daughter received treatment for jaundice, we were on our way home. The first 3 months is a blur. All I remember is being awake, babies on my breasts, cluster feeding, and quickly losing my mind. I was determined to exclusively nurse the twins. No one slept. No one was sane. We did use formula at times. Especially for my son who seemed to be starving. My husband was determined to make them sleep. I recall one night he fed my son so much formula in hopes of him sleeping, that my son vomited everywhere and we were back to square one. My anger in this moment was immeasurable. I couldn’t seem to nurse them or supplement them without feeling some sort of failure.
I sought help from a lactation consultant. I finally felt relief weighing the twins before and after nursing, knowing that I was producing, but they needed a little more. I kept a bracelet on my wrist to remind myself which baby was on which breast last. The problem was that my daughter was more efficient, and my son was smaller. I was bouncing them from breast to breast hoping they were getting enough. I was also pumping like a crazy person. Working on building a stash, just in case. But I didn’t want to use the stash to feed them. It was official: I had lost my mind. I saw my consultant on a fairly regular basis. I was taking motilium to increase my supply which also increased my appetite. I was doing everything I could in order to continue to nurse the babies.
At 4 months, I was at a consultation and she suggested a new plan: assign one breast to a baby for 24 hours, then switch. Within a week, the babies were gaining, and I was starting to feel an ounce of success. At this point, it was like a cloud lifted and breastfeeding became easy.
At 6 months, after an average of 4 hours of sleep (for me) in 24 hours...in increments, it was time to bring in a sleep consultant. When the twins were 7 months, my daughter was finally sleeping through the night and my son was feeding once. This was the first time that I ever felt engorged. I woke up in the middle of the night and I could feel the “flower petals” of milk in my breasts and I was shocked at the feeling. Everyone talked about the let down and I never felt it. Until 7 months postpartum. I was still pumping, but this time once a day. The collection of milk in the freezer went to two friends. One who was unable to nurse and the other was unable to pump and was back to work.
The encouragement I received from people was “stop nursing” or “use formula”. Only one person was supportive. My sister, a labor and delivery nurse. I was shocked at the overall lack of support. No one knew how to help me. I’m glad I pushed on, but I learned some valuable lessons.
Breastfeeding was the unexpected hill that I died on. I paid a very big price for it. My mental health suffered greatly; I have PTSD from the lack of sleep and the deep postpartum depression I was in. When the babies were two, I finally got help. Once I got help, I realized that I probably should have been admitted when the babies were about 3 months. The help came much too late to avoid long term consequences. I am grateful that I pressed on since it eventually became easy, but I still wonder if my mental health would have been better if I accepted the help and let it go. However, now, in a state of clarity, I look back with pride and love of breastfeeding my children. I breastfed for 19 months. I feel like when the babies turned one, I lost most support. My sister remained supportive which I will always appreciate, but it seems like society expects an end to it on a child’s first birthday. I would have kept going if I felt like I had more support. Everyone had a comment like “oh you’re still nursing?” My breastfeeding also wasn't subtle - I always tandem nursed and as the babies got older, it was a full shirt off experience. I received many comments when I nursed. Some about the size of my breasts, some about their age. I felt like it was time to end it.
At the time, I didn’t know how anyone could support me. I encourage partners and other support people to help a nursing mother get sleep. Bring the baby to her to nurse and take away to burp and calm, so she can get some sleep. Keep comments at bay, unless they’re of support. Don’t just suggest they quit. Suggest lactation consultants; give positive encouragement. I tell struggling mothers that it does get easier, because it does. It was emotional, difficult and beautiful. I am so proud of myself that I persevered! My babies and I experienced that journey together. It didn’t have to be the hill that I died on, but I’m glad it was. For my 35th birthday, the babies were almost 18 months, I honoured our journey with a nursing photoshoot. This is my favourite picture ever taken of us. It makes me teary looking at it, 3 years later. I am so grateful I got this opportunity.