Milk

At 8:00 p.m. one week ago I was lying on a gurney in the hallway of an emergency room in Winchester, Massachusetts, three thousand miles from my home, listening to an audiobook on my iPod and awaiting the results of my CAT scan. Although I still wasn't feeling well, my stomach had mostly stopped hurting, and my primary concern was not my undiagnosed illness -- it was the 24 hours I would be unable to nurse Laurel because of the intravenous iodine I had received as part of the CAT scan. I had agreed to the scan because the ER doctor strongly suggested it was necessary to determine whether or not I had appendicitis, but I completely expected it to show that my appendix was fine.

Since I hadn't had enough time to stockpile milk for her, Laurel was going to have to drink formula for the first time in her life. Meanwhile I was going to have to pump and dump for 24 hours, and I had previously only relied on the pump for eight or nine hours at a time. Would I be able to pump thoroughly enough that I didn't get plugged ducts? Since milk production is based on supply and demand, what would happen to my supply? I was so occupied with thoughts of milk that I spent very little time considering my possible diagnosis. When the nurse appeared, in fact, all I asked her was whether I would be able to take the hospital's breast pump home with me.

"Oh, you're not going home tonight," she said.

She was right, of course, and I had my appendix removed at 3:00 a.m., approximately seven hours later.

- - - - -

I ended up using the hospital's breast pump only two times while I was there, which was probably a mistake. I had last nursed Laurel at 7:00 p.m., right before Craig took her home to bed, and as she usually sleeps through the night without nursing I assumed I would be able to wait until morning to pump. But when I pumped at 10:00 a.m. I noticed I had low supply, which was unusual and worried me a little. I was positively alarmed by 2:00 p.m., however, when I pumped again and managed to produce only half of the amount I had that morning.

There were probably several issues, including illness, surgery, and dehydration, but I mostly blame infrequent pumping and the lack of an actual baby. A pump is much less efficient than a baby, and I wasn't pumping as frequently as Laurel nurses anyway. Plus I hadn't seen Laurel in more than 18 hours. Between these two things, I was sending signals to my body that it no longer needed to make milk.

When it was time for me to leave the hospital, Craig picked up a pump from the hospital's lactation consultant. When we got back to the rental house Laurel was clearly thrilled to see me, but soon after I took her in my arms she began to cry. She desperately and repeatedly rubbed her face against me, looking for milk. She cheered up after someone took her away and gave her a bottle of formula, but that didn't do much to improve my mood. I tried out the new pump at 6:00 p.m., but it was pitiful. I got a quarter of what I had produced in the morning, and there were still nine or ten hours left before I could nurse Laurel directly. I was full of despair. Would my milk ever return? Was it too late?

I pumped again at 10:00 p.m., nearly crying from frustration. There was so little milk. I went to bed, but I was secretly glad when Laurel woke up at 3:00 a.m. because it meant I didn't have to wake her up myself. Craig went to her first while I pumped one last time, as it was just 24 hours after my surgery and I wanted to be sure all the drugs were out of my system. There was hardly any milk to dump, really, but I felt I needed to purge whatever remained.

But then, finally, for the first time in 32 hours, I got to nurse my baby. It was hard to say which of us was happier.