Breast Angst: The Saga Continues (Read With Caution)

The blog has been neglected this week for a couple of reasons. The main reason is that I have a very demanding newborn. I am re-learning how to do everything (including typing) with one hand since I always seem to have one arm tucked around a gorgeous little babe. The other reason I have been absent from the blog is that I have been continuing to fight this breast abscess.

I had some relief initially after the first aspiration, but a few days later, the pain began to steadily increase again. On Thursday I saw my GP who prescribed another round of antibiotics, but by the weekend the situation was worse than ever. On Sunday Morning George and the kids drove to Bristol to collect my mom from the airport, and while I should have been giddy with anticipation of seeing my mom after many months, I sat in the rocking chair and cried.

So shortly after she arrived, we left my mom home with Emma and Sophie and headed back to the hospital. Boy am I ever getting sick of that place! Since it was a Sunday, there was a skeleton crew on staff, and we basically waited several hours to finally be told: Yes, that looks wicked. Please come back tomorrow when we have the proper staff available to do something about it.

I went home in agony. I did make it through the night nursing Lili and doing my best not to think about what was brewing under the surface of my very red and angry looking left breast.

We went back yesterday and I once again showed Lefty to anyone in the hospital who wanted to take a gander. Their reactions were always a mix of horror and sympathy. At some point while we were waiting, it ruptured. George noticed when I was feeding Lili, and he didn't do a very good job of disguising what he had seen. (I don't know if I am unique is this regard, but it is best for me if I see and know as little as possible when physical injury is involved.) Based on his reaction, I went to the bathroom mirror to have a look. (Luckily the abscess is located on the lower left quadrant, so I can only see it with a mirror.) When I saw that the abscess had finally reached the surface and that a scary-looking blister had formed, I came back to the hospital room and did my best not to burst into tears. All I could say to George was, "Don't say anything!! I don't want to talk about it! [suppressed sobs] I just don't want my boob to explode!!"

My panic was quickly rising. George went to inform the staff that a mental health professional as well as a breast specialist might be required. Shortly one of the midwives came in to check on me. She was followed by the breast specialist, who was determined to sort me out once and for all. Dr. Eleri Davies (such a lovely Welsh name) was also extremely compassionate about my despair. So off we went for another ultrasound and aspiration. Someone pass me a paper bag! It was a dreadful walk. I knew it had to be done, but all I wanted to do was curl up in the corner and hide. When I got into the room and undressed, I could see evidence of the rupture on my breast pad, and I will leave the description at that.

Eleri sent me back to the very same torture chamber... er, ultrasound room, as last time, but this time I had a different doctor and nurse. I am happy to report that this experience was very different than the first. The doctor offered anesthesia, which I gratefully accepted, and the nurse was much gentler in every regard. It was all over in about ten minutes and is now bandaged up so that I cannot see the damage. When the anesthesia wore off about an hour later, it was extremely sore (and continues to be).

So here I am, ever hopeful, that things are finally going to get better. (It's been three weeks now!!) I will return to the hospital to see Eleri again tomorrow and have another aspiration if necessary, Heaven help me.

One of the worst bits, is that when a nursing mother feels poorly, so does her baby. Lili seems to need lots of extra comforting (and nursing) right now when I have the least energy to provide it. It's also difficult to find a comfortable position to hold her with my c-section incision and my broken boob, but we are making it through and holding out hope that this will soon be resolved. Stay tuned if you dare...

Life Goes On...

I have been so encouraged by all of the wonderful messages that have come my way this week. I am also happy to report that things do seem to be getting better. I think another round or two of antibiotics may be required to shift this infection. It is a doozy. I plan to head back to my GP tomorrow to get her opinion on the matter.

Otherwise, life does indeed go on even when mom is sick. On Monday Emma made her Brownie promise before God and everybody at the Pentyrch Village Hall. George reports that she spoke up and delivered the words conviction.


I also managed to get out of the house today (with the help of Sonia) to buy Halloween costumes for three little girls. It was a nice, sunny day to be out, and I did find that the day passed much more quickly when it included a change of scenery. Lili did well on her first outing and incited lots of ooh's and aah's from friends and strangers. I feel a bit bad that I haven't taken near as many pictures of her as my other babies since I've been feeling so poorly, but I'm sure we will make up for it in the coming weeks.

Below is a photo I took over a week ago with Emma and her beloved baby sis. So sweet.

Playing Dollies Never Hurt Like This**

It hasn't been the best week for me. I really thought I had navigated safely through the third baby postpartum stage with a minimum of tears and drama... and then I woke up on Thursday morning and nothing was right. I was slightly feverish, completely tearful... and those "blocked ducts" I had been complaining about were even worse. It also happened to be the day that George was supposed to go back to work. I rang my community midwife to see if she could pay me a visit. After blubbering on the phone to her for several minutes about my milk ducts which I thought had been painfully blocked for over a week, she suggested that I go over to Llandough Hospital to the breast clinic. I agreed to this, then hung up the phone and cried for an hour. (Meanwhile George had gone to register Lili's birth at the Cardiff registrar's office. There was a also a decorator downstairs painting the walls while all of our downstairs furniture sat, piled in disarray in the dining room.)

I finally called Angela (the midwife) back again to tell her that I couldn't face going out to some unfamiliar hospital. She had already assumed as much and had arranged for a breastfeeding advisor to come and pay me a visit at home in the afternoon. While George was off collecting the children from school, Amanda, my breastfeeding-guru/ savior arrived. I answered the door in tears and in my underwear. She was completely unfazed and followed me upstairs to my bedroom where I had spent most of the day wallowing. I explained about the blocked ducts and all of the horrible abuses I had heaped upon my poor left breast to try and unblock them. "Right, shall I just have a look then?" she asked. (Little did I know Amanda would be the first of about 75 people to just 'have a look' at my boobs.)

Oh my word, when she saw what I had been calling 'blocked ducts,' I thought Amanda was going to cry. She was sure they were not blocked ducts. It had even gone far beyond mastitis, a miserable condition I have had in the past. Amanda was 99% sure that I had a breast abscess and that I needed to immediately go back to the hospital to have it all sorted. Of course, nothing can be that simple. I had to first get an emergency appointment with my GP, so that she could confirm the diagnosis and ring the hospital on my behalf. All of this was done. Dr. Pryce looked at my boobs, asked me why I hadn't come in days before, then told me that the worst case scenario was that I'd have to have breast surgery. Great.

Now all five of us headed back over to Royal Glamorgan Hospital. We had been told to enter by the A&E entrance. (That's Accident and Emergency for those of you who are unfamiliar with the NHS.) So I took my very unwell self, my newborn and the rest of my family into the A&E, which shared an entrance with the Swine Flu clinic. Nice. The maternity unit (on the complete opposite side of the hospital complex) was expecting me, and I was told to wait in the waiting area (full of sick-looking people who were most likely carrying horrible communicable illnesses). No thanks. I asked if I could just go back to the car and drive over to maternity, but apparently the porter had already been called to transport me via wheelchair. I steered clear of sick bay waiting area, and an age later a porter arrived without a chair. He had to go and find one. Super. Meanwhile all of the sickies were eyeing up my baby and breathing in her direction.

Finally I ended up back on old familiar Ward 11. I really thought I was done with that post-c-section place. It was time to hurry up and wait. Meanwhile an extremely unhelpful midwife visited periodically to tell me that she didn't know why I had been sent to the hospital and ask why my GP didn't just sort me out. She'd also pop in occasionally to tell is it was going to be a while before the doctor would see us. Actually, all of the midwives were constantly popping in on us as we seemed to have been stowed away in a treatment room/ storage closet. So every few minutes, some member of staff would barge in, then apologise, and go rummaging through one of the cupboards for a wound dressing or something or other.

George and the kids eventually took a field trip to McDonald's while Lili and I continued to wait for the elusive doctor. Finally she made her appearance. She looked to be about 16 years old and seemed very concerned upon examining me. "Right, let me just go and confer with my senior colleague." she said. Several minutes later, her senior colleague, who looked like one of the Jonas Brothers, came in and had a look and a feel. Dr. Jonas really wished I had been in earlier because there was nothing he could do for me until the morning. My situation required an ultrasound for further diagnosis. I was happy he allowed me to go home and return in the morning. He assured me that my breast wouldn't explode overnight, although it felt like it might.

I spent the night at home (thankfully) caring for Lili and alternating between sweats and chills. After the kids were in school, we headed back to the hospital where we basically repeated the previous evening's scenario. Luckily, we did bypass the A&E this time and headed directly to Ward 11.

After showing my breasts to nearly everyone on the ward and becoming so familiar with the storage cupboards in the (same) treatment room that we could gather supplies for the midwives ourselves, I was finally taken down to ultrasound. At this point I was a nervous wreck because I knew that if the ultrasound showed infected fluid in my breast, it would have to be drawn out with a large needle. Wouldn't you know it, there WAS fluid. It was definitely a very infected abscess. The very nice doctor told me that anesthesia would not be helpful, and that we just had to suck it up (so to speak) and do it. I had a full-on panic attack for a minute and somehow got myself together. There is no need to write about what happened next. It was horrifying for me. When it was over, I sat and trembled for several minutes. But it was one of those things that had to be done. I have been taking heavy-duty antibiotics ever since and will be back at the hospital tomorrow. I really hope that more fluid doesn't have to be drained, but I won't be surprised if it does. This will give me another opportunity to go into the 'Jesus Jell-O,' because my brain cannot stay in that room while that is happening. I have been running off to find Jesus a lot lately, and climbing into His Jell-O mold is a good thing to do when this world feels completely overwhelming.

So please keep me in your prayers. All will be fine in the end, but the journey has been somewhat harrowing. Hopefully the next time I write, I will be much bouncier and much less drained.

By the way, please scroll down to the very bottom of the page to view a very cool video that always seems to make Lili stop crying. (Thanks again to Molly Cook for that.)

** My title quote was shamelessly pirated from an email conversation I recently had with my friend Molly, mother of five, who knows firsthand how true it is.

Paula Deen Never Thought Of That!

Fair warning: if you don't want to hear about my breastfeeding woes, skip on to the next entry, which contains nothing unsavoury.

I have avoided my blog for the past few days because I can barely think of anything other than my painful, blocked milk ducts. Today I am breaking the silence in hopes that some of my mommy-pals out there will contact me with a miracle cure. Yesterday, for example, I loaded the left side of my bra with grated, raw potato, which according to several sources, is a tried and true home remedy for drawing out blockages. I will never look at hash browns the same way, kids.

I did just speak to a midwife on the phone, and she encouraged me not to worry but to carry on with what I've been doing: applying heat, excruciating massage of the area, and continued nursing in unusual positions. (I didn't own up to attempting the potato trick.) I am starting to get extremely fed up since this has been going on for nearly a week now. It seems as though I give up one discomfort and it is immediately replaced by a new one! So, my dear mommy friends, I am open to any and all suggestions whether they involve root vegetables or not. Help!

Just to Break Up the Monotony...

I think I finally turned a corner yesterday. I am actually beginning to feel markedly better, which is a very good thing considering the fact that while George was taking Sophie to school this morning, our clever and fabulous decorator/ handy man, Dave, turned up at our door as I sat, teeth and hair un-brushed, nursing Lili in the lounge. Emma, who is home today, running a fever, coughing her head off, and talking a mile a minute, answered the door and let Dave in. I knew we had booked for Dave to come out some Monday in October to do some interior painting, but I obviously wasn't prepared for him this morning.

This is how I know I am starting to get my groove back... I immediately leaped out of the rocking chair, threw a receiving blanket over Lili and the boob and offered to make Dave a cup of tea. Dave accepted, and I easily managed to both feed baby and make the perfect cup of tea with milk and sugar at the same time. This is more like it! I don't mean that I am ready to climb a tree or even go shopping yet, but things are definitely looking up.

Here is an update on Miss Lilianna:

• She prefers songs by Queen to traditional lullabies. Her favourite at the moment is We Are the Champions performed by none other than her Daddy.
• Sophie still cannot believe that Lili is her little sister, still regards her as "so adorable," but now has also determined that she is a "Baby Rock Star."
• Lili prefers never to be put down... seriously never, my back pains don't lie.
• The health visitor came to see her today and concluded that she looks great and has gained 6 whole ounces weighing in at 6 lb, 12 oz. (We thought she felt chunkier!)

Third Time's the Charm

This is what I have in my lap as I type this morning...

I have had five and a half years to forget about how exhausting it is to have a newborn. One wouldn't think that a little thing weighing less than seven pounds could cause so much stress and so many aches and pains. This time around I am, of course, not only dealing with the usual stresses and fatigues that accompany having a new baby, but also coping with the aftermath of surgery. This morning I was moaning to George about how achy my back was and how much I'd love to have a really good stretch. Fear of feeling like I am going to rip my stitches, unfortunately, is preventing me from attempting that good, deep stretch. Ouch!



But I did not sit down here this morning to write about the aches and niggles that will soon fade from my memory. (God was very clever when He gave us all New Mom Amnesia without which none of us would ever have more than one baby.) I did sit down to write about how being a third time mom means being a much more relaxed mom. I know from experience that these discomforts are only temporary. I know how glad I will be in a few months that I persevered with breastfeeding even though at the moment it fills me with a bit of dread. (You will be grateful that I won't go into any more detail than that.) I also know how short of a time we will have someone so tiny and helpless in our midst, and if she wants to be held and nursed constantly... so be it. She will not desire my attention near as much when she's thirteen, so for now, I can take it.



Better still is the rapport that I have with my husband the third time around. When we had our first baby, there was a game we liked to play called "I Am Way More Tired Than You." As you might imagine, this is a game that no one ever really wins. This time around, we know each other so much better. I know that a happy and well-rested George is a much better partner than an exhausted and unappreciated one. This is why I refrain from rolling my eyes when he says he's tired. I know he's tired, and I also know it is not a competition to see who can be the most miserable. Who would want to take that trophy home?


My house is not as clean and tidy as I would like, and there is nothing I can do about it... And I am okay with that. Being not-okay would serve no purpose. We have been eating lots of frozen pizzas and fish fingers lately, and I say, "So what?" This all shall pass. One day I will be back in my kitchen (more than likely with Lili strapped to my chest), and there I shall cook up a culinary feast, but for today, fish and chips and a happy family are all I need.


Also did I mention that I haven't put on real clothes in about eleven days. I am at peace with the fact that this is my time to heal. There will be time to hike up mountains, to cook and clean, to travel and go on outward adventures soon enough, but for now the adventures are all happening inside my untidy house. The main characters are my husband, my children and me, and my costume is George's old garish tie-dyed t-shirt and a pair of polka-dot pajama trousers. It isn't perfect... or maybe it is.

Calgon Didn't Take Her Anywhere She Wanted to Go...

Everyone was excited about Lili's first proper bath tonight.

Everyone, that is, except Lili.

This is pretty much how it all went....



But all's well that ends well. She was ever so grateful when her daddy pulled her out of that horrible tub. And now she smells of Burt's Bees' lovely buttermilk soap. Mmmm.


So this tired mom is about to go and cwtch up with sweet smelling, clean, sleepy baby...
Goodnight All.

Your Daily "Awww"

I took this picture of Lili sleeping on George's nasty old Kentucky pillow yesterday. I didn't realize at the time that it looked like the wildcat was about to claw her head... but the baby is still totally cute. Her sweetness is making my slow recovery feel completely worth it.

Life With Lili

It's been almost a week, and we are loving life with Lili. For the first few days, whenever Sophie was in her presence, she'd practically chant, "I just can't believe she's my baby sister!" There is something amazing about it. We all knew that I had been pregnant with an actual baby for the last nine months, but the reality of her being here in the outside world with us still takes our breath away.

For the past couple of days, Sophie's mantra has changed into, "She's just SO adorable!"

Emma has been found on more than one occasion just sitting and watching Lili sleep. I have to admit that this is one of my new favourite pastimes too. I can't help but think what a lucky little lady our Lili is. She has no idea how much she is loved. Last night after I read Emma a bedtime story (Sylvester and the Magic Pebble by William Steig) and tried to send her off to bed, she asked, "Can I please bring a book in here with you and Lili and read quietly until I get tired? I just want to be in the same room as her." Who could refuse that? Later she commented,

"I can't wait to see what Lilianna looks like when she gets older, but I don't want to wish this time away. I just LOVE having a tiny baby at our house." Ah, my sentiments exactly, Emma!

On another note, I am loving my house husband who has two weeks off for paternity leave. I don't know what I'd do without him here, and I have a feeling that at least one of us is going to dissolve into tears when he has to go back to work. Recovering from a c-section is the pits in my opinion, especially after having two natural deliveries under my belt. There are times when I am completely frustrated and overwhelmed with the continuing aches, pains and limitations that I experience. But it is what it is, and I am so grateful that George is spending his paternity leave taking the best care of us, rather than going "down the pub to wet the baby's head" as I am told many British dads do!

The post-partum era does bring much more good than bad. In addition to having a beautiful new baby, I find that I have also suddenly given up the horrible, treacherous heartburn of pregnancy. I no longer have to get up and go to the loo 17 times in the middle of the night. Pelvic girdle pain is gone... never mind that it has been replaced by deep stabbing pains at the incision sight-- we are looking on the bright side here. I can see my feet again. And, if they didn't feel like hot, hard, boulders, I'm sure I'd be completely pleased with the giant set of milk jugs I woke up with on Saturday morning. Do you see how I can never just leave well enough alone by simply describing how lovely it is to have a new baby. I have to include this ridiculous paragraph about things you'd just as soon never read. Sorry about that, but you knew this was my blog when you started reading.

My British Birth Experience

This photo is just for you, Uncle David!

I doubt anyone, apart from my mother, wants to read a complete blow by blow of my birth experience, but I have had my fears about giving birth under the care of NHS "socialized medicine" ever since I found out I was pregnant, so here goes... Throughout the pregnancy, my care has been very adequate, but without some of the bells and whistles and comforts that I experienced at home. My birth experience, however, was fantastic, even though it unfortunately turned out to be an emergency cesarean in the end.

Last Tuesday evening I started having contractions about every ten minutes and was on alert since I was pretty sure the baby was still breech. I managed about 45 minutes of sleep, but woke up to stronger contractions which were five minutes apart. I did what any normal woman would do: got out of bed and scrubbed all of the toilets in the house. I then Googled "how to tell if you're in labour" or something like that... as if I didn't know the third time around. Eventually I rang the hospital, and after describing my situation, the midwife on call asked me to come in straight away. I woke George, who was completely confused, then called my friend Sonia, who immediately shot over to look after Emma and Sophie (at 2:00 am...that is a true friend)!

We were on our way, and upon arrival, I was coincidentally greeted in the car park by two of the maternity workers who were out for a breath of fresh air (i.e. a quick fag). They walked me straight up to the maternity ward, where I was greeted by a midwife who had a room all ready for me. There was no waiting even though it was apparently a busy night on the ward. (There was a baby boom in the hospital the week I was there... Christmas babies, you know.) My completely adorable and perky midwife, Becky, did all of the preliminary checks and shortly the registrar on call came in. Both determined that the baby was breech and that I was indeed in early labour. What to do? After a bit of private deliberation with George, I decided that I was most comfortable going with the c-section. I knew I didn't want to attempt a breech birth and was completely freaked out by the idea of an external cephalic version. So... immediately the wheels were set in motion and I was off to the operating theatre for surgery.

Before I could go into theatre, I had a meeting with the anesthetist on call. This was a small, exhausted-looking, extremely gay, Asian man who wore red and gold bowling shoes with his scrubs. (Get the picture?) He described to me in great detail everything that could possibly go wrong with my anesthesia, then urged me to "just relax". By the end of it all, he and I were on great terms and cracking jokes, but at first, he seriously freaked me out.

Before I knew it, I was on my way to the theatre with trusty midwife Becky by my side. A spinal anesthetic was given and I eventually lay there completely naked, sprawled, numb, and slightly distraught about it all. George was allowed in at that point, the curtain was pulled, and all of the surgical stuff that I'd rather not think about began. Only a few minutes later, the anesthesiologist told George he could stand up and watch the baby being "delivered."

"There she is!" He breathlessly called out.
"Does she have hair?" I asked.
"I can only see her bottom." (of course) was his reply.
Well... in that case, "Is it a girl??"
"Yes!!"

Literally seconds later I heard our girl crying and found that I was crying as well. Becky took her for a very quick clean and then brought her straight to me for a cuddle. At that point I was able to completely forget about all the layers of stitches and vacuum suction and such which was happening on the other side of the curtain. We simply took time to fall completely in love with our new little bundle. Becky and the anesthesiologist each predicted a birth weight over seven pounds, but the jelly bean only weighed in at 6 pounds, 6 ounces. This all happened sometime around 5:30 in the morning, but I wasn't keeping track at that point.

After I was all stitched up, the registrar stuck her head around the curtain to tell me that all had gone well. She also said that the baby was basically doing a split inside my uterus when they pulled her out... one foot down below her bum and the other up beside her ear. She would have been impossible to turn externally, so we had made the 'right' choice opting for the cesarean.

The next half hour or so was a bit of a blur. There were about 7 people in the operating room with me, and it's funny how being completely naked, sprawled and numb in front of all of these strangers just became completely normal. We chatted about movies and other nonsense while I lay there on the table, completely vulnerable, and they moved me around like a fleshy rag doll.

A short time later I was taken to the Intensive Care Maternity Ward (where all mums go after a c-section), and I was looked after by the most fantastic midwives I've ever known. My favourite was a Scottish girl called Kim Hallewell, who was with me through the worst of it, including the anesthesia- induced sickness. (FYI: fresh abdominal stitches and vomiting are not a nice combination.) Kim (as well as the other midwives who worked with me) was completely sympathetic and answered all of my thousands of questions with patience, warmth and kindness.

I loved the fact that the aftercare centered around women looking after women. It seemed really old fashioned at first. Partners only were allowed to visit from 10:00 am-12:00 pm, and all other visitors were allowed for four hours in the afternoon. At first I thought this would be awful, but honestly it was nice that there was no pressure to entertain visitors or to anticipate that someone could stop by for a chat at any moment when I felt like I had just been hit by a lorry. No mobile phones were allowed in the ward either, which annoyed me at first, but after the second day I realised that I felt so much more rested than I ever had in my post-natal hospital rooms with private phone lines in the States. When visiting hours were over, I knew no one would be bothering me except the midwife on call, and she was no bother since she was always bringing pain killers or offering much appreciated help and comfort.

The entire time I was in hospital, my baby never left my side, except for the few minutes when midwife Becky took her to have a quick and gentle bath just after the birth. The baby was not scrubbed raw from top to toe as they do in the States. In fact a good bit of the vernix was left in the creases of her skin and just rubbed off naturally over the next couple of days. This seemed so much nicer to me, and I would venture to say it's also healthier and less traumatic for the baby.

By day two in the hospital I was gingerly on my feet and felt ready to come home to my own bed. George has been fantastic. At any moment of the day, he can either be found doing the dishes or the laundry. Ah, the life of a domestic goddess. For the last two days that I have been home, the community midwife has visited us to check on me and Lili. Today she weighed Lili and told us that she is just about back up to her birth weight. Hooray for mother's milk! She will be back again every day until Lili is one week old at which point the health visitor will take over to do well baby checks whenever necessary. Tomorrow I get to have my sutures taken out, and I am doing my best to just not think about that.

Well... this mama is up far too late. I am off to bed with a rack that would put Katie Price to shame and a baby who could melt Simon Cowell's heart. And that is all the British pop culture references you're getting from me until we meet again.

"It is not a slight thing when those so fresh from God love us." - Dickens

I had big plans to write something fabulous here this morning, but I have spent most of the day cwtched up in bed with my three girls, and I have no regrets there. Suffice it to say, I will not pooh-pooh the "vision board" again, as I did indeed go into labour on the evening of September 29th. Our newest little jelly bean was delivered via emergency c-section at 5:34 in the morning on September 30th. Mom and baby are back at home and both are doing well.

How wonderful life is now you're in the world...

Lilianna Gwyneth Carson spent three days as a Jane Doe, but we have now all agreed that this name suits her well, and acknowledges her Welsh beginnings. She weighed 6 pounds, 6 ounces and is 'practically perfect in every way.'

George is so seriously outnumbered now!

We're all completely enamoured with her.

More to come on my very positive British birth experience... even though it had to be surgical in the end. Happy weekend to all!