K is for Knockers
Yes, I was a size K. Yes, bras do come in this size. I have one to prove it. I’d like to burn it, but I can’t seem to part ways with it. Its overwhelming presence (literally) in my bra drawer reminds me daily of my struggles with engorgement when my daughter was a baby. I consider it a medal of honor for my battles with breastfeeding. Maybe I should shellac it and put it in a glass case.
When my daughter was one week old, I noticed the tell tale sign of engorgement: rock hard boobs. Seeing as how this was my second child and I had already gone through the trials and tribulations of engorgement with my first, I felt well prepared to avoid this hiccup the second time around. No go. Even though I caught it well ahead of time, rented the hospital grade pump, and attempted to relieve some of the engorgement, my large ta-tas were relentless with their milk production. How could this be happening, again? I knew how to breastfeed! I breast fed for a year with my first daughter. Yes, we had a rough go at it at first, but isn’t that why you have a second child? To fix all the mistakes you made with the first?
So here I was at my daughter’s one-week check up and the pediatrician spent most of her time examining me. She sent me home with antibiotics for the infection that developed in the breast due to the engorgement and the classic instructions: heat breast, pump breast, ice breast. I wish it were that simple. What happens when you pump and nothing comes out? And by nothing I mean NOTHING. Not a single drop. The thick irony of having too much milk yet none coming out was suffocating. My size K knockers were so sore at this point I could not even hold my baby. If someone accidentally brushed against my chest, it sent excruciating shivers of pain down my entire body. I had to sleep on my back with pillows propped under my arms to serve as barricades so my boobs did not fall to the side because it was too painful. I was a mess. -A hot, sweaty, frustrated, crying mess.
My regime was ridiculous. I would soak my boobs in water so hot that my husband could barely touch it. My body temperature was so out of whack from the infection and fever that the water felt normal to me. I would kneel on a chair over the sink and fully submerge my breasts in the water. The idea of the heat was to get the milk flowing. (But I couldn’t heat them too long for fear of more swelling!) The idea of hanging them over the sink was to have gravity work in my favor. They felt like bowling balls and I was convinced they might snap off at any moment sending a tidal wave throughout our kitchen. After ten minutes of heating, I would attach the pump while my husband “massaged” the ducts with olive oil to loosen them. Sounds a lot more erotic than it looks. Trust me. After pumping we would clean all the equipment and myself and stuff my bra with cabbage leaves and ice packs to relieve the swelling. (But I couldn’t ice too long for fear of clogging more ducts!) The irony lives on.
Meanwhile, I was calling lactation consultants all over the city. Each one I called had heard about me via another consultant calling to get ideas. I was famous. Nobody had had a case this extreme before. Each consultant I called emphasized the latch. Oh, the latch! Yes, of course. Why didn’t I think of that? If I heard the word “latch” one more time I was going to loose what little was left of my mind.
After many phone calls, I ended up meeting with a lady who has seen over 1,000 babies. She took one look at my breasts and said she has never seen engorgement this bad. Just to reiterate, that is 1 in 1,000 kind of bad. She even asked to take a picture for educational purposes. I am all for sharing experiences to educate my fellow woman, but I was simply not in a place to agree to a snap shot of my porn boobs. I opted out. No harm no foul. She then proceeded to check my pump, which I was convinced was broken and that was why I was having a heck of a time. It checked out okay. (Surprise, surprise.) She went through all the steps with me that we had been doing at home. I was starting to think this might be a waste of time.
As I sat there hooked up to the pump, she explained the journey my boobs had been on for the last 3 days: engorgement/swelling (mastitis) from too much milk production, leading to clogged ducts where pockets of milk grew bacteria (infectious mastitis), leading to pus collecting in these localized areas of the infected ducts (breast abscess). I took a deep breath, trying my best not to puke in my mouth about puss hanging out in my boobs, and listened to the sound of the pump as it suctioned, released, suctioned, released over and over and over again. I looked at my baby sleeping safely in my husband’s arms, closed my eyes, and surrendered. I surrendered to the idea that this was my absolute best. I surrendered to the idea that I was truly exhausting all options in order to be able to breastfeed my baby. I surrendered to circumstance. My circumstance, in that moment, was that my second baby might need to be formula fed, which is 100% okay. My circumstance, in that moment, was that I might need to surgically drain these bowling balls in order to take care of myhealth. My circumstance, in that moment, was that my baby and myself would be okay, in the end, no matter what happened.
In my hypnotic, self-accepting, circumstantial state, I noticed something: a sense of peace, a sense of letting go of expectations. Oh yea, and a gross, yellow, half liquid-half solid, blob dangling from the end of my nipple. It was the most beautiful gross, yellow, half liquid-half solid, blob I had ever seen! It was the first sign that this damn dam might actually break and I was thrilled. Although the lactation consultant did nothing different than what we were doing at home, I believe is was a combination of her contagious, peaceful attitude, my surrendering, and the universe’s coincidental timing that led to this breakthrough.
We went home and continued our circus act of heating, pumping, massaging, and icing. Tiny, tiny drops were landing in the bottle. .25 mlturned into .4 ml. .4 mlturned into .75 ml. With each tenth of a ml I was sending my praise to the nursing gods. I had been praying to them daily, tears running down my cheeks, “Please, please, help me. If this milk could just get out of these pulsating rocks, I promise to pay you back in charity work.”
I remember the day it fully broke. I was pumping and noticed a long, thick strand of mucus-like substance hanging from my nipple, similar to the one at the lactation consultant’s office. I took the pump off and pulled the strand off of my breast. I stuck the pump immediately back on the breast. Shazam! It was like Old Faithful. Full squirts of milk were firing out of my breast! A hymn erupted in my head: “Hallelujah!” Squirt. “Hallelujah!” Squirt. “Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hal... le... lu... jah!” Squirt. It was working. Dog gone it, it was working!
In a matter of a day, I was pumping 2 mlon both sides every couple of hours. The engorgement was relieved enough to actually hold my baby! I put her back on the breast thinking she would have some trouble after being off of it for days while drinking formula. But what I have come to learn is that babies are amazing. They WILL go back to the breast. They LOVE the breast. She nursed the first time back on and continued for a year. I owe the nursing gods a lot of charity work.
I learned a lot during this week of my life. I learned to find strength during times of surrender, because ironically, that is when you need it the most. I learned that boob journeys are all different and never to judge feeding decisions, ever, because breast or bottle, we all love our babes. I learned that bras do come in size K.
It just might be time for me to burn that bra in my drawer. While it symbolizes my determination and strength, I now see these characteristics in my girls. Who needs an oversized bra when I can look at them instead? Then again, I could always donate it to a porn star. Would the nursing gods count that as charity work?
