Pippa's Personal Story
If you’re squeamish, look away now.
When Evie was born, it took a little while for her to cry. They were the scariest moments of my life. Some heavy chest rubs though, and she wailed. Then they plonked this weird alien thing on my chest for her to feed—and she turned blue. They took her off me again, said I must have smothered her with my boob. Great start, Mum. Only seconds old and I was already trying to kill her. In hindsight, her turning blue had nothing to do with my boob, but I already felt like I was a terrible at this.
Some mothers talk of that instant connection, that love that was cemented the moment they finally got to meet their baby on the outside. I didn’t have that. I wanted it, I expected it, but I didn’t recognise this baby. She was new, she was unfamiliar, I didn’t know what to do with her.
They kept her in the nursery that night, as she was still quite blue, but they put her on my breast again. I’d heard it could be painful when you first get used to it, and it was a little, but more of an annoying rubbing sensation. I just ignored it and tried to find something in that baby that made her mine. The next morning they brought her to me and again gave me tips on how to feed her. “Is it supposed to feel like a rubbing?” I asked. “Oh, it’s just you getting used to the sensation, she seems to be sucking fine.” With every feed, I would ask the same questions to the lactation consultants, as the rubbing was now starting to feel more like a cheese grater. Both consultants told me it was normal.
Within 36 hours, we were getting the boot from the hospital. How could they send me home with this thing I didn’t understand? I still wasn’t happy with the sensation from feeding, so requested to see the paediatrician before we left. With our bags packed, she stuck her fingers into Evie’s mouth, and just like the lactation consultants before, declared everything was fine in there. In other words, it was me, and I was just being soft. Of course, that was not what she said, but as a new struggling mum, that was how I took it. So for days, I gritted my teeth and bared it.
The cheese grater turned into a slicing serrated knife. I would dread every feed. Evie was slow too, it would take her forty minutes to an hour, every time, and as many of you know, they feed every three hours. So I only got two hours between each feed to recover, which I got to spend luxuriously (eye roll), changing her nappy, trying to stop her crying, begging her to sleep and cleaning up milk vomit. Sometimes I found myself looking for excuses to delay feeding her, just to give myself a bit more time. I felt selfish. I felt a real failure. And I felt Evie deserved so much better than me.
As serious cracks began to show on my nipples, I decided I should talk to another lactation consultant. Something just didn’t feel right, surely it wasn’t supposed to be like this. I had one come to my house, and she was lovely, gave me the ‘you’re doing great’ speech, which I really did need to hear, but ultimately, her visit didn’t help. It was also expensive, and we didn’t have a lot of cash to throw around, so I went to visit another, local, free, lactation consultant at the hospital. She was also lovely, and just like all the others, she checked Evie’s mouth. All was good inside, and she sucks well, it must be me.
When she saw my breasts, however, immediately she told me one of them was too damaged to continue feeding on, and that I had to find a hospital grade breast pump before Evie’s next feed. Which was in two hours! I panicked. My husband was back at work, my baby was going to wake up soon, and I was in the car, driving home, wondering if I should pull over because I was starting to shake from the anxiety. How was I going to feed her? Where was I going to find a pump? I was all alone, and soon Evie would be screaming for something I couldn’t provide her with. At home in my garage, because I was too scared if I got Evie out of the car she would wake up, I started calling chemists everywhere. No one had a breast pump, they were all already on loan. When I burst into tears on the phone, one pharmacist took my number down and, bless his soul, said he would do the calling around for me, and that I just needed to make myself a cup of tea to calm down, and maybe buy some formula just in case we couldn’t find a pump.
Formula. It had never occurred to me that formula was an option. And to be honest, even when the solution was laid out so simply for me, I still didn’t consider it as an option. I had been told so many times, beaten over the head with it really, that breast milk was the best milk for my child, that I should do anything and everything I could to make sure I gave my child the best start in life, and ensure she’s breastfed until she’s at least one. I was such a terrible mother already; this was the one thing I had to make sure I gave Evie.
Ten minutes later the pharmacist called me back, he had found a pump for me. I burst into tears all over again. But I had run out of time, Evie was awake. I popped her on my breast, the one the consultant told me I couldn’t feed her on or else she would soon suck the whole nipple clean off (yes, it flapped), and I grit my teeth and curled my toes for the next 40 minutes. Then when it was over, I wiped the blood that had dripped from my nipples, off my baby’s forehead, and held her until my husband came home from work, breast pump in hand.
From then on, I got even less time to recover. As soon as Evie had stopped feeding on my ‘not as bad but still painful boob’, I would give her a bottle of my expressed milk from my damaged boob. But I was never able to catch up on the pumping, which meant after every feed, I spent that precious free time being milked like a cow, just so I had enough milk for her next feed. It would be 3am in the morning, after just giving Evie a feed, and rather than crawl into bed, I would sit there and pump. I continued to see the lactation consultant. She would even call me on her days off to check in on me. I said to her, “I’m your problem client, aren’t I?” Her response, “You are the one I’m worried about.”
My sister-in-law, who used to be a midwife, suggested I take Evie to an osteopath. A friend of hers had had trouble with feeding and apparently this osteo did wonders for her baby, relaxing the muscles in bub’s mouth enough that it was able to suck more freely. I was desperate, I pitched the idea to the lactation consultant. She eventually conceded, saying we were adjusting Evie’s latch by millimetres, and still the damage and pain continued, and therefore the issue is more likely Evie’s mechanics, than anything else. I nearly burst into tears … again. Since the beginning I had been telling whoever would listen that I felt something was wrong, that it wasn’t just me. It was the first time, after four different consultants and a paediatrician, that someone had told me that I could be right.
I took Evie to the osteopath. Within seconds of her looking at Evie, still sleeping in her capsule, the osteo announced with absolute certainty, “Evie has a tongue-tie.” She didn’t even look inside Evie’s mouth, but she pointed at Evie’s lower lip, which had always sat so far back compared to her top, and said it was due to tongue tie. Then she asked if I had ever seen Evie lick her lips. No, no I hadn’t. I’d never seen her stick her tongue out at all! So when Evie woke up, the osteo had a look inside her mouth and confirmed, my daughter had both a posterior tongue and a lip tie. Within a week we were seeing a laser specialist, who confirmed it and cut her ties on the spot.
Things improved, although it wasn’t the silver bullet I had hoped. Evie was 3 months old by then, so she had to learn to suck all over again. I also had to brutally rub the wounds inside her mouth every few hours, to stop the ties from reattaching. I would even have to wake her up in the middle of the night, just to perform the torturous task. She would scream. It was horrible.
It was slightly less painful to feed her, but Evie’s suck still didn’t seem strong enough, and I developed mastitis. Twice. I spent almost every waking hour thinking about my boobs. Massaging the milk out of them in the shower, trying to clear the lumps before they turned into an infection, pumping them, adding ointments (none of which worked!), covering them in cabbage leaves, treating thrush infections, warming them up with a breast shaped microwavable pad before every feed, buying a tiny massage gun to try and clear the bumps, getting ultrasound treatments to avoid more mastitis, and eventually, taking even more antibiotics, as the wounds on my ‘bad boob’ just would not heal. All the while, Evie and I got better and better at the dreaded feeding thing, and finally had time for bonding. I finally loved my little girl. It took longer than I wanted, longer than I thought, but I loved her more than anyone else in the world. She was mine. She was perfect.
At eight months I began to wean Evie. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to travel for work, and I couldn’t take Evie with me. I felt guilty of course, it is the natural state for all mothers, but I told myself I had at least lasted until 8 months, not far from the one year mark. Evie guzzled that formula as if it was just as good as anything I had produced. The freedom was unbelievable. I could now head out to the shops for hours on end, not needing to be back in time to pump for her next feed. I could have my husband look after her for a while. A whole night even. I could go out and drink way too many wines with my mother’s group, then regret it the next morning. I didn’t have to think about my boobs! They just became their usual lumps, albeit much saggier and more depleted, that they had always been since I hit puberty. I was me again.
Now, since I’m co-founder of a business selling nipple balm for breastfeeding mums, why would I be talking about all the benefits of formula feeding? Shouldn’t I want mums to breastfeed for as long as possible, and therefore need my products for as long as possible? My answer to that?
F#%! off.
Bubs and Boobs Co is here to help mothers. That’s it. Full stop. If our products help you, then wonderful, if our Instagram page is just a place to find a community, then great. I am not an advocate for breastfeeding nor for formula feeding. I am Switzerland. This is simply my story, my journey, and every mum out there has their own. I don’t care if they breastfeed or use formula, and personally, I don’t think anyone else should either. Choosing one over the other does not make you a good or a bad mother. I’ve made it through that horror time now, so I can look back with a clearer head, and I believe I could have been a better mum to my child if I wasn’t in so much pain, stressed and obsessed with my boobs. But I also don’t regret persevering with breastfeeding, as in the end, we did finally get there. I guess what I mean is, mothers should have a choice, and it is theirs to make. They might have to go down a road they didn’t want to, but early motherhood is a battle, and if formula is the weapon they need to survive, then grab it with both hands. If I’m ever lucky enough to have a second child, I sure will be easier on myself next time.
So is there a point to this stroll down memory hell then? I guess it’s just to tell mothers out there that they’re not alone. It’s strange, those early months, you have this tiny thing practically strapped to your hip non-stop, and yet it can be the loneliest time in your life. Full of raging hormones, stress, second-guessing and self-berating. There’s conflicting advice flying at you from above, below, left and right. And so what am I going to do? I’m going to contribute to the problem and give you even more advice. But it is simply this. Trust in yourself. If you know something is wrong, but the expert says there isn’t, seek a second opinion. Then a third. Then a fourth. Trust that you know yourself, and even though you’ve only just met, you know your baby, better than anyone else in the world.
Trust in yourself. You’re doing great. You are the best mother your child could have. They are lucky to have you. The time will come when you will break through to the other side.