Mourning is a Process...

The above picture of Grandma Sophia bottle feeding Lili absolutely breaks my heart (although Sophie loved the opportunity to feed her baby sister). This weekend has been a rough and emotional one for me. On Friday evening, just after the doctor's office closed (of course), I started experiencing pain in the previously dubbed "good boob." An hour or so later, flu-like symptoms hit me like a freight train. I was shivering uncontrollably and cursing the carrots and hummus I had eaten earlier as they returned... Hmmm... Ever tried to nurse a baby while throwing up? Looking back on it, that was pretty impressive. I was 99% sure I had mastitis. My "bosom buddy" Sonia drove me over to the Heath hospital where we saw a friend of ours who was the GP on call that evening. She confirmed that it looked and sounded like mastitis and gave me another round of antibiotics to start taking immediately.

Saturday wasn't any better. Because of the infection my milk supply was really low and Lili cried every time I put her to my breast. George finally defrosted my last bag of expressed breast milk and gave her her first bottle. She devoured it greedily, and my heart began to break just a little. I was no longer able to provide her with what she needed, and I still felt like hell. By the evening, my breast was feeling worse and starting to look a little too familiar. It looked to me like the early stages of another abscess, and I began to panic.

Sunday morning we called the after hours service, and the nurse on call sent us to a lovely old building in town called the Cardiff Royal Infirmary. I saw a doctor there who took a look at me and declared that, yes, it did look like ANOTHER abscess. An expression of complete dread must have come over me since, when she looked at my face, her demeanor immediately changed from clinical to sympathetic, "Oh, I am so sorry." she said. I proudly held it together until we got back in the car when the tears began to leap down my cheeks. The doctor in the infirmary had booked me into the Surgical Assessment Unit at the Heath hospital, so we were off to another hospital... again.

And so my mourning began. I realized that I had probably breastfed Lili for the last time and not even known it. When we arrived at the Heath, I was completely tearful every time one of the poor student nurses came in to talk to me. George and the big kids went off to buy formula, and Sophie asked, "What's formula??" That sent me over the edge again. I was suddenly no longer a breast feeding mom. While they were gone, I took Lili into one of the triage rooms and used my breast pump to express what little milk I had while I sobbed and sobbed. I cannot explain why nursing is such an emotional thing. I never would have understood it if I hadn't experienced it myself. I know that breast milk is the best thing for my baby, but I also know that 'formula isn't poison.' I think I will mostly miss the closeness that I shared with my breastfed baby. I will selfishly miss the fact that it was something that only I could give her, and I will undoubtedly miss the convenience of it all. Last night we were sterilizing bottles and teats and mixing formula again (as I did with Emma for most of her baby-hood). That is going to get old fast.

Back at the Heath, I finally saw a surgeon at around 5pm. He was very nice and sympathetic since his wife (the radiologist who aspirated my first abscess-- cue the "It's a Small World" music) also had to give up breastfeeding for medical reasons. He congratulated me for making it two and a half months and for persevering after a traumatic breast surgery, but said that it was probably time to let it go. After examining me, he concurred that what I had was a "brewing abscess" rather than a full-blown abscess. He couldn't tell for sure without an ultrasound, and apparently it is impossible to get one of those on a Sunday evening in Cardiff. It was his hope, however, that if we hit it hard with antibiotics, we could knock it out and avoid more horrible medical procedures. Of course, I am all for that. The heavy duty meds would, however, make my milk unsuitable for Lili.

So... did I cry last night after I expressed milk and poured it down the sink? You bet your granny's knickers I did. One would have thought I'd be all cried out by now, but my tears keep coming.

I received one and a half rounds of intravenous antibiotics in hospital last night before returning home. (The second round had to be stopped half way through since it apparently didn't agree with me, and I felt as though fire were being sent through my veins.) Lili is doing fine and seems as happy as ever with the bottles of formula. I am still 'pumping and dumping' milk until the infection goes away, and I am taking two different kinds of antibiotics as home. The meds have wreaked havok on my stomach, but if they allow me to avoid surgery, I can cope. Emma and Sophie are both off school sick today. Emma is especially miserable since she is missing a class field trip; bless her heart. This morning all four of us girls were curled up in my bed like a miserable motley crew, but honestly it's a little bit nice to have everybody home and hunkered down today. Even George has taken the day off work to commiserate.

I appreciate all of the well wishes and words of encouragement. I truly do. They have warmed my heart and brought on fresh tears of gratitude. I know that I will, of course, be okay, but I am in mourning at the moment. I am so grateful for the fact that my husband appreciates my grief even if he doesn't understand it. What a blessed person am I.

Hopefully I will be back to writing about more cheerful topics again soon. I should be back in to see my "old" breast surgeon again sometime this week. Once again, I am ever so hopeful that this infection will have sorted itself out, and he will send me off on my way. How great would that be? Prayers, once again, are appreciated!