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HOW I WAS BREASTFEEDING MY BLUE-EYED BOY FOR 13 DAYS
During one period of life, I had a nickname "The Plank". That was a direct comment about the size of my breasts, as Mother Nature was unfairly stingy towards me in that regard. Oh, was I happy when they started growing after I got pregnant, like mushrooms after rain! They did wonders for my self-esteem. When I was 9 months pregnant, I almost got into a fist-fight with a man on a parking lot, two times my size (Who are you to tell me I can't park here!? Come here, if you dare!). All my strength seemed to stem from them, like Popeye's' from spinach. As a "well-read future mother" (authors' note: the phrase originates from one White Coat*, who addressed me in the following manner, with a humiliating tone of voice: "Oh, so you are one of those well-read mothers, huh?"), my plan was to breastfeed my child for at least 6 months, and with God's help, maybe even the whole year. Oh, if only everything had gone according to the plan... Following an emergency C-section, and due to some stupid hospital protocol, I was sent to the Intensive Care Unit for three days. The same protocol doesn't allow babies into the ICU, nor is the mother from the ICU allowed into the Baby Unit. For three days I was crying my eyes out, for three days I was not allowed to see my child. They brought him in once, contrary to the protocol, fearing that I might have a nervous breakdown if I don't see him, and showed him to me from a distance of 2 meters. They did not allow me to touch him, not to mention breastfeed him. My breasts were, of course, swollen with milk, but nothing was coming out of them. As I was a "well-read" one, I knew I was supposed to act as if I was a cow, and milk myself, so I was pressing my breasts up and down, left and right, and was overjoyed whenever even a drop would come out. And so it was going on: breasts hurting, me rubbing them, squeezing them, crying, counting hours, and comforting myself with one thought... soon, I will be in the Baby-Friendly unit, and my child will be with me 24 hours a day... Eventually, that day dawned, the fourth day in my son's life! Finally I could touch my child, oh my joy! We were assigned to the room number 8. Two midwives came in to show me how to breastfeed him. They brought in the chair for me to sit on, because it had a back-rest as opposed to the bed, but at the same time they warned me to hide it afterwards, as the hospital protocol does not allow chairs in the room. If the cleaning lady sees it, she will take it away. Where could I hide a chair within a room so that the cleaning lady can't find it - they did not tell me. Ready, steady... GO! My child opened his mouth and grabbed the breast! The stars were in front of my eyes, tears were rolling down my face, scream was flying from my throat. Midwives told me: it has to be that way, that is normal, it will pass. They were thrilled with the way my son was sucking on my breast, commenting that often such a long separation from the mother results in the loss of the sucking reflex. Why they would separate a mother from a child for three days if that is the case, they did not tell me. They were guessing whether his eyes will stay blue. The older one guaranteed me that they will. Ten minutes later, they were showing me how to switch him from one breast to the other. Again the stars, the tears, the scream. But, I bore it all. What else could I do? They told me it has to be that way. Another 10 minutes shall pass, eventually. And they did. Midwives packed their things and left the room. Just before slamming the door, they said: "Milk yourself!" "But, when shall I feed him again...?" SLAM! The door was shut behind me and my son. He fell asleep, leaving me alone to play a cow. That whole of that day I was breastfeeding him every two hours for 20 minutes, imitating the best I could what midwives have taught me. And after that I always milked myself. And then the night fell. My breasts were all bitten, covered in blood, scabs and rhagades. No White Coat ever came to check up on me. I was exhausted from the lack of sleep, I was in pain, alone, scared. And then I realized it is time to feed him again. I started crying even before I took my son out of the crib, even before I placed him on my breast, knowing what will follow - stars, scream, tears. But, I proceeded bravely, navigating myself through the mist of tears. Ready, steady... GO! That was not the stars anymore. That was the very core of hell. Blood was flowing from the wounds that my hungry son opened. "No, this is not right. I can not take this anymore. I have to get some rest, or I will have a nervous breakdown." I left the room to search for a nurse on duty. It was evening, 9 o'clock. "Would you, please, feed my child? I breastfed him the whole day, but look what he did to me. I really can't take it anymore. It hurts like hell." "Feeding is at midnight." "I know, but he is hungry now. He is crying." "I can't help you, Formula is not prepared before midnight, the kitchen is closed now." "Ok, I will call my husband then, so that he brings in the Formula. Will they let him in at the entrance?" "No outside food is allowed in." "I know, but what am I to do, then?" "Wait until midnight." I went back to the room number 8 and took my crying son into my arms. I walked up and down the room. He was crying, I was crying. He was screaming, I was screaming. I was thinking to myself: "What kind of a mother am I, if I can't feed my own son? I should never have had a child, if I am going to let him starve." But, the thought of the pain that would follow from placing him on my wounded, bloody breasts just managed to make me cry louder. And so it went on from 9 pm to midnight... for full three hours. We had a jolly good cry, my son and I, on the fourth day of his life. No one even came into our room to check up on us, to try to comfort us, although our loud, joint cries were echoing down the halls for three hours. Alone we were left all that time, my son and I. They fed him at midnight, and sort of a by-the-way established that I was not breastfeeding him properly at all, that he was sucking, but hardly anything came out of my breasts, that I was not milking myself properly, that everything was blocked. That's why he opened all the wounds on my breasts. I should have started milking myself immediately after child-birth, didn't the nurse come to the ICU to tell me that, to show me and teach me how to do it? No, she did not come, may she rot in hell! "Well, what should I do now?" They brought me some sort of a pump, and told me to milk myself with it until the 250 ml bottle was full. At 4 o'clock in the morning, the bottle was barely half-full, and I was pumping and sleeping at the same time. At least my son was fed and sleeping. Mother's little angel. When did I fall asleep with the pump on my breast - I have no idea. Next thing I know is that the cleaning lady entered the room as if she was a tornado, and while I was still half-asleep, took the chair away. And woke up my child. Mother's hungry little angel. Full of self-confidence, I took him out of the crib to breastfeed him, though unable to support my back in any way, as The Tornado took the chair away. Ready, steady... GO! That were not the stars anymore. That was not even the core of hell anymore. That was the sign-post to the Lunatic House. Bring in the strait-jacket, I am having a nervous breakdown. I placed my crying son back into the crib. I went out into the hall. I went down on my knees in front of the desk of the nurse on duty. I placed my hands together in the sign of a prayer, and sobbed through tears: "Please, feed my child! Please, feed my child! Please, feed my child!" Suddenly, there were White Coats all over the place, as they realized that the situation was not an easily dismissible matter anymore. They took my son away to feed him, and filled me with tranquilizers. They were checking up on me every half-hour. "How is it, Mother? Someone will come soon to show you how to sort out your breasts. They are totally blocked, you can't possibly breastfeed while they are in such a state." And, finally, someone really showed up, and showed me how to press here, press there, rub here, rub there... I was giving it my best, I wanted to do it, but it was not working. Nothing happened. Talking on the phone with one of my friends, I was advised to find someone - who knows what they are doing - to sort out the problem with my breasts. Only after that, my friend said, could any of my attempts keep them in order. There was simply no way I could do this myself. My friend managed to find someone through a connection. A nurse that works in the very hospital, who will come in and sort out my breasts. After I slip a 10 euro banknote into her right pocket. That is, my friend said, the usual bribe fee. An hour later, my breasts were sorted out and, exhausted from pain and stress, I fell asleep. Later that afternoon, they brought my child back in. Although I was still suffering from a horrible pain, encouraged with the fact that now my breasts were now sorted out, I breastfed him through tears and screams. Then, I took the pump into my hands, until the 250 ml bottle was full. As far as the scabs and wounds were concerned - there was no remedy. That I simply had to endure, because the hospital was feeding babies with Formula just two times a day - at noon and at midnight - and that was not enough for my breasts to rest and wounds to heal. I comforted myself with the thought that soon I will be home! Eventually, that day dawned, seventh day in the life of my child! We were going home! Farewell hospital and farewell White Coats, may my eyes never see you again! Six days later, after the regime in which I fed my son during the day through tears and screams, while my husband fed him with pumped milk or Formula during the night, my breasts recovered completely. I was now getting up at 2am to breastfeed him during the night, too. Ready, steady... "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? What sort of a spot is this on my breast? Look, there's another one higher up, on my neck. Let me see it in the mirror. Jesus, there's one on my face, too!" "Is that 'Hallo Baby'** service?" "Yes." "This is the thing, this happened and that happened, and now there is some spot on my breast and on my neck and on my face, and I am not sure whether I should breastfeed him or not. What is it?" "How does the spot look like?" "Well, it looks like when I burn myself, and the thing fills with water." "That sounds like Chicken Pox." "That is not possible, I had them as a child." "I really don't know. Go to the doctor's tomorrow. Don't breastfeed until then." During the next two days, I was going around, visiting doctors. General medical practitioner: "That is Chicken pox. Stop breastfeeding. Stay away from the child." Infectious disease specialist: "That is Chicken pox. Stop breastfeeding. Stay away from the child." Pediatrician: "That is Chicken pox. Stop breastfeeding. Stay away from the child." Gynecologist: "That is Chicken pox. Stop breastfeeding. Stay away from the child." They managed to convince me. Oh, was I the UNFORTUNATE and STUPID woman! Only 84 hours after the first spot came out did I come back to my senses, and started Googling. Internet: "Within 72 hours of the appearance of the first spot on the mother, baby should be taken to the Infectious Diseases Clinic to receive a short-term protection vaccine against Chicken pox. Breastfeeding should be continued." On the 25th day of his life, my son got Chicken pox too. And his eyes did stay blue.
Today, on the second day of the International Week Dedicated to Breastfeeding, while media is busy focusing on the problem of breastfeeding in public places, I choose to point my finger to the doctors and medical workers. Me and my son, "My Blue Eyes", we are accusing them of: 1) ignorance 2) disinterest 3) inhumanity And as far as journalists are concerned, I would advice them to stop dealing with the European problems of breastfeeding, and instead focus on the core of the Balkan one. The answer to the question why less then 25% of Serbian mothers breastfeed their children will not be found in public places, but in childbirth hospitals, for goodness sake!
Footnotes:
* "White Coat" is a local nickname for
doctors and medical personal, because they wear white uniforms.
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