Are you a mama-to-be and are curious about breastfeeding your baby? Are you wondering if there are any potential dangers? Below is my breastfeeding failure story as first-time mom with my son, Sebastian.
Trigger warning: This story is not easy to tell and not easy to read. I reference spending time in the NICU with my newborn and medical procedures, so please proceed with caution.
Disclosure: I am not a medical expert nor am I a lactation expert. This post is my own, personal experience breastfeeding as a first-time mom. Although I do not like talking about this experience, it is my hope to share my story so that another mother will not have to experience what I did.
This post is all about my breastfeeding failure story. I hope this cautionary tale will help a new mother-to-be!
A Cautionary Breastfeeding Failure Story
Present Day...
I was aimlessly scrolling Facebook as I tend to do when I have a free minute, which albeit with two children ages three and one isn't too often when I saw it. A childhood friend (who recently had a baby) posted that her baby boy was admitted into the NICU. I immediately texted my mom (who is friends with said friend's mom) to see what happened. My text was answered with a call from my mom and she said calmly, plainly:
"The same thing that happened to Sebastian. Dehydration."
The world titled. My stomach dropped, my breath labored, and I was instantly transported back to nearly four years ago, when our son, my firstborn, was admitted into the NICU. Nearly four years have passed and I can remember every single detail like it was yesterday.
Four Years ago...
My decision to breastfeed was easy. It's what is best for the baby and I, like all mothers, wanted what was best for my baby. The deciding part was easy, what came after not so much.
Even though I was an older mom (thirty-five at the time) I had no idea about breastfeeding— how to do it properly, how hard it actually is, and more importantly, that it might not work. No one in my family had ever breastfed (my mom, grandmother, cousins, etc.) I honestly didn't understand why they chose not to breastfeed because it's the most natural thing, you didn't have to fuss with bottles, or buy formula. All that to say, I didn't have a female role model to turn to for support and guidance or to ask questions.
As eager parents, my husband and I took all the classes the hospital offered: we learned to swaddle our newborn, bathe the baby, and yes, we learned about breastfeeding. Or so we thought.
The lactation consultant teaching the class assured us that females produce enough milk for the baby, so much so, that new mothers will produce enough milk to feed twins right after giving birth. Once the baby latched, your body would adjust its milk production accordingly. She waxed on and on about perfecting the latch and I (naively) thought that this was all I had to worry about.
The Journey Begins...
When my son was born, he latched right away. Thank God, I thought. The hard part is over. I remember the nurses commenting that he (my son) had a good latch and that I had produced a decent amount of colostrum. At the time, I didn't even know what colostrum was or the fact that many moms begin pumping it before the baby is even born.
Because I had a c-section delivery I was in the hospital for 3 days. As the days progressed, I continue to meet with the lactation consultants. I continued to put the "baby to breast." My son wanted to nurse constantly and would scream minutes after nursing. At the time I wasn't using a pacifier because, again, according to the classes, a pacifier could potentially cause nipple confusion so it's best not to introduce one until after several weeks.
But my son, Sebastian, kept losing weight. I continued to ask the nurses if the baby was getting enough milk.
Yes, they assured me, babies don't need much. He's doing just fine.
But Sebastian was restless, and would cry all night long. As a new parent, I thought that this was normal. After all, what did I really know about newborns? I remember one nurse commenting, as she checked on us, "He just likes using you as a pacifier."
Heading Home...
The day we were discharged I met with the lactation consultant for the final time and I remember crying, asking her if my baby was getting enough milk. He had lost more weight, but at that point, not enough for the doctors to be concerned. It is normal for newborns to lose a percentage of their body weight after birth. She assured me—hugged me, even—and told me that I was doing a great job and my baby was perfectly fine.
The next day we had our scheduled check-in with our pediatrician. We saw the P.A. rather than the pediatrician herself. Again, Sebastian lost weight, but other than that he was doing really well. The office scheduled us for another weight check in three days. If Sebastian continued to lose weight we would discuss the possibility of supplementing with formula. This was the first time anyone had ever mentioned supplementation. The nurses at the hospital didn't provide formula, didn't suggest it as a possibility, and kept encouraging me to "put the baby to breast."
The Unthinkable Happens...
After our appointment with the pediatrician, my husband helped us into the house and then left to go to work. I took Sebastian from his infant car seat and laid him down to change his diaper and...he wouldn't wake up. He was completely unresponsive. I panicked and called my husband immediately, screaming and crying that the baby wouldn't wake up.
My husband instructed me to hang up with him and to call 911. Jesus, why hadn't I thought of that? The 911 operator was hesitant to send an ambulance. She kept saying things like, "Newborns are difficult to wake. This is normal." I insisted through tears, that no, this is not normal. I had tried everything and my beautiful baby boy wouldn't open his eyes. After several long seconds, which felt more like minutes, she dispatched an ambulance to our house.
My husband beat the ambulance to our house.
When the ambulance arrived, the EMTs could not rouse him either. They carried my son, completely unresponsive, to the ambulance. I, days after having a c-section, climbed into the back of the ambulance without assistance, without thought. I watched as the EMT poked and re-poked my son's tiny, flaky skin as he tried to start an IV line. He was unsuccessful.
When we arrived at the hospital, the ER doctor, who we ironically knew as an acquaintance through a mutual friend, attended to him. She treated him for dehydration, and after some sugar water and formula, our baby boy woke up. We were there for several hours to ensure he was stable and then were sent home with the instructions to give him formula.
At home, I had breastfeeding covers. Nipple Guards. Nipple Cream. Water bottles and snacks ready to go.
But, we had no formula. No bottles. No bottle nipples.
Again, looking back, we were completely naive and unprepared, but my plan at the time was to exclusively breastfeed. I had no idea that it might not work out.
You would think (hope) that our story ends here...
It doesn't.
Later that night, even though we had been offering formula (and he had been drinking it), Sebastian was still very lethargic and hard to rouse. He hadn't had a wet diaper all day. My mom had come down to stay with me because understandably, I was a mess. My mom agreed that our son didn't seem quite right and I called our pediatrician's office to get their advice. It was after hours and the on-call P.A. advised me to take our son back to the emergency room.
We called our local hospital to let them know that we were bringing our son in. He was admitted once again, but this time they did many more tests, including a spinal tap.
A spinal tap.
He was five days old. I will never forget his scream until the day I die.
The attending doctor kept insisting that something had to be wrong with our son because I received antibiotics during my c-section. I tried to explain to him, as it was explained to me, that receiving antibiotics during a c-section was standard practice. My husband even called my OBGYN to confirm that I didn't have an active infection when I gave birth.
A stay in the NICU...
We were advised that Sebastian was being transported via ambulance to a larger hospital (we live in a small town) and would be admitted to the NICU. At this point, I had been awake for more than thirty-six hours and I was shaking so badly I couldn't even sign the paperwork to authorize his transport.
On top of everything, we were unable to ride in the ambulance with him. I watched helplessly and confused as they packed him into an incubator and wheeled him away.
My husband and I had no change of clothes, no money, and our cell phones were nearly dead, as we got into our car and made the hour and half drive to the hospital where our son had been taken. When we got to the hospital our son was just being admitted. The wait to see him, to talk with the doctors, was agonizing.
Learning to Pump...
The nurses in the NICU were not super warm or friendly. They immediately had me strip down (in front of them, in a non-private room) and start pumping. I had never pumped before, and had no idea how to set up the machine or clean the parts. It was 11:30 PM and my son had just been admitted o the hospital. We had no idea what was going on. Then, they instructed me that I need to set an alarm and come back in three hours to pump again.
I didn't sleep. My husband and I argued like we never argued before. We didn't know what we were doing. It felt like the doctors were overreacting—I had a healthy pregnancy, a safe, planned c-section due to Sebastian being breech, Yet, at the same time we (I) were afraid that something could be terribly wrong. The doctors threw around words like meningitis and spouted the importance of starting antibiotics as early as possible just in case it really was a worst-case scenario.
So there lay my five-day-old baby hooked to multiple IV lines, blood drawn, tiny little bruises over his arms and hands, receiving multiple rounds of antibiotics. All this, was a slap in the face, when I had done everything as naturally as I possibly could while pregnant. I didn't even paint my nails for fear of chemicals.
I couldn't leave my baby.
The second night the staff refused to let us stay in the hospital. I was a mess, a panic of worry, and looking back, I can definitely say I needed sleep, was on the verge of a mental breakdown, but at the time I threw a fit. With tears in my eyes, I pleaded, telling my husband that I refused to leave my baby, and that I wouldn't spend a night in our house without him. I lost the battle and ended up spending the night at home, where I set an alarm every three hours so I could pump.
I was still only getting two to three ounces every session, but I was determined.
A diagnosis...
After two and a half days in the NICU, our son was discharged. His official diagnosis was dehydration. He didn't have any congenital illnesses or infections. He simply wasn't getting enough milk.
I pumped for twelve weeks but my milk never fully came in.
I was a breastfeeding failure.
Could it have been due to stress? The fact that I had a c-section? That I was an older mom? A combination of all three? An unknown factor? I'll never know for sure. And it's something that I still struggle with to this day. I don't like to talk about it because I failed our son. My body failed me. Something that I was born to do and I couldn't do it. Couldn't provide the basic nutrients for his survival. His mom. The one person he relies on.
When my son was in the NICU I asked the pediatrician (who was lovely and a phenomenal doctor) if this incident would affect my son at all in the long term. She wholeheartedly reassured me that it wouldn't, that no one would even blink an eye because this sort of thing happens all the time.
I was relieved.
But also, I was angry.
This sort of thing happens all the time? Why the hell didn't I know about it? Why the hell didn't someone mention this in any of the 397,903,944,905,839 classes my husband and I took?
If I'm being honest, I still think about this experience. When my son hit his milestones at the tail end of an acceptable timeframe or was a late talker, my mind skidded back to my breastfeeding failure. To those two-and-a-half excruciating days, he spent in the NICU being needlessly poked and prodded. Looking back I can say that this experience led me to have postpartum anxiety, well beyond what I deem normal. Meticulously I recorded how many ounces of breastmilk (and formula) he drank, tracked his weight, and wouldn't let anyone else watch him. I was obsessive, and not in a good way. I had trouble sleeping at night because, in my mind, my husband or I needed to stay awake to watch over him.
A happy, healthy, toddler...
But somehow I survived. We survived. And my precious baby boy is now a healthy, happy, talkative, thriving almost four-year-old. And I thank God for formula because without it my son would not be here. This story could have ended very differently.
I share this story to share my experience. Although it's hard to be vulnerable, to relive the most awful moments of my life, my hope is that it can save another new mother from this harrowing experience. To learn that sometimes breastfeeding doesn't go to plan, that you may not produce enough milk, and that there are options. And that is okay if the plan changes. That your baby will be okay. You will be okay. And that fed really is what's best.
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