When parenting is painful

Jess: It’s world breastfeeding week again. Three years ago, I wrote a blog about my struggle with nursing James and the painful decision to give up (Read here).

When I found out I was pregnant again, I vowed that breastfeeding would work this time. I planned a VBAC so that I wouldn’t have to worry about c-section complications getting in the way. We had assumed that my body’s disastrous response to the surgery with James had been the major factor in my inability to breastfeed him. With James, I had skimmed through some books on the topic. With Joseph, I read and read and planned all the ways that this would be different. I wasn’t going to let my body fail me a second time.

After a beautiful natural delivery (you can read about that here), I was able to nurse Joseph immediately. He had a great latch and things seemed to be going beautifully. A little more than 24 hours later, we went home and continued to have a pretty decent nursing relationship. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, since this was new for both of us, but I thought we could figure it out. Wes and my mom did everything to make breastfeeding easy for me. 

Then Joseph started screaming—screaming—every time I tried to feed him. We would fight with him for 45 minutes only to have him feed for a few minutes and pass out in frustration. When we got him into the doctor for his first appointment at 6 days old, he had lost a pound—just like his big brother. I went into HEB in tears on our way home to get the can of formula that would save him from the dehydration and hospital stay that we had with James. Then I got my pump out and went to work. Some of my friends had needed to supplement at first, so I assumed that this was just a stage. 

As Joseph developed nipple preference and my 8-12 pumping sessions per day produced less than 25% of his needs, we called a lactation consultant. It was then—when my second child was more than two weeks old—that I finally discovered the issue. I have a condition called Insufficient Glandular Tissue (IGT). Basically, my milk-producing tissue never developed when I was an adolescent. With each pregnancy, my breasts have developed a little more tissue. So I produced more with Joseph than James, but still nowhere near his needs. 

I was crushed. I didn’t go into breastfeeding either time with some idea that it would be all sunshine and roses. I knew that I would struggle, but I assumed that I would have enough milk for my children. How could my body fail me like this? How could every breastfeeding resource assure me that “almost no women” have true supply issues when at least 5% of us do? Doctors try make previous c-section patients have second c-sections because the risk of uterine rupture during labor increase to .2% from .1% after the first surgery. But “almost no women” have supply issues!? And that is just the women who do research rather than give up when their babies don’t get enough food.

It is painful to be in this place. It is painful to once again be opening cans of formula. It is painful to hear that I’ve taken the “easy way,” or “formula is poison,” or “breast is best.” Everywhere I turn, I can find that last phrase. What about “fed is best”? What about acknowledging the amazing strides science has made so that we can mimic breastmilk for our babies? What about celebrating the fact that my children survived despite my body not being able to nourish them? It is hard to see all of my friends succeed where I have failed. It is hard to watch other mothers feed their children in a way I will never be able to feed mine. It is hard. But my children are thriving, the formula/breastmilk period of their lives is so short, and we have an amazing bond. So during World Breastfeeding Week, I rejoice with those who nurse successfully, I weep with those who cannot, and I remember to not be too hard on my body—after all, it grew and birthed two beautiful boys. What a blessing it is to be their mother.  

Wes: This is going to once again be a blog in which I have very little to say. This is not because I do not have strong feelings and opinions on this, but because, having gone through this twice as Dad—and not as Mom—I have come to realize that my place in this story is not to say anything myself, but to serve as an ally and a megaphone for my wife.

What I want to say is just go re-read everything Jess wrote.

What I need to say is something to those who might find themselves in positions like mine, where your role is one of support. This is one of those times where being the Yes Man is so important. Your job is to encourage your wife in any way she needs, whether it is by spending extra money on consultants, pumps, and tools, by taking her to appointments and sitting beside her, or by handling all of the bottle feedings so she doesn’t have to feel like she’s giving up, your job is to be her biggest support. Your patience might be pushed. Your lack of sleep might reach new levels. Your temper will be tempted. But this is one of those times when you are not the subject. Your focus is on her and the health of your baby.

Remember: this is not just about saving your marriage (although it might). It’s not just about helping your newborn baby (although you should). It’s about helping your spouse remember that she is not a failure, that she is not letting down your child or you or anyone by not being able to breastfeed. It’s about helping her live through what could be one of the darkest times of her life, as she feels physically incapable of being a mom.

Remind her that she is fearfully and wonderfully made, and so is y’all’s child. Then just be prepared to sit with her. It won’t be fun, or easy, or pleasant. But it will almost assuredly be what she needs.

A tale of two births

Jess: On the evening of November 20, 2012, Wes yelled through the bathroom door, “I’ve made some salsa that just might be hot enough to induce labor!” I don’t remember my exact reply, but it was something along the lines of, “Too late!” My water had broken and our first child was on the way. My mom and stepdad had just arrived a few hours before to celebrate Thanksgiving with us, so first we told them, and then we called the midwife. Since I had not had any contractions yet, she told me to stay at home until I felt some or a few hours had passed. So we had dinner, took showers, and watched Airplane! Then we headed to the hospital.

And nothing happened.

For almost a full day, we hung out in the labor room, with my pitocin gradually being increased but having no effect. I wasn’t supposed to get up and walk around because I was hooked up to baby monitoring equipment as well as an IV; my blood pressure had skyrocketed and they were pretty concerned about that. I arrived at the hospital 3cm dialated, but 26 hours after my water broke I was only 4. After attempting a few measures to speed the process along, my midwife finally said aloud what we had been dreading: c-section. She and the OB were concerned about baby developing an infection after being exposed for so long.

Surgery and I do not get along. James was born at 10:21 p.m., healthy and screaming. He was 6 pounds, 1 ounce and 18.5 inches long. Wes was able to hold him pretty soon after. But my midwife lovingly referred to me as a “train wreck” in the days to come. I needed I don’t even know how many supplements, lots of extra attention, and two blood transfusions during my 3.5 more days in the hospital. Even today, I feel like I was robbed of the birth experience I wanted. For weeks and months afterward, I felt guilty for bringing my child into the world in this way. I hated that my body couldn’t do what it was made to do.

Flash forward almost 3.5 years. On the morning of April 6, we had a routine prenatal appointment. We were 3 weeks away from Joseph’s due date, and even though James was early I think Wes and I were both pretty convinced that this baby would stay put longer. But at the appointment, the doctor checked my progress and said she was sure we would have a baby within two weeks. At first, we both panicked, but then we made a few plans for the days and weeks to come and settled back down into waiting for baby.

All day that day, I had cramps on and off. I assumed they were due to the exam and went about my business. James and I went to the library, we had dinner at Wes’ church… just a generally normal day. Wes and I watched some TV, at which point I complained that the cramping had been pretty annoying but not really painful. It wasn’t until we were going to sleep that I realized that the cramping had become somewhat regular. That perhaps I was having contractions. I decided to time them; at this point, Wes had already fallen asleep. Less than a minute after beginning to time the “cramps,” I felt and heard a “pop!” I sprang out of bed and ran to the bathroom—my water had broken!

After calming down and getting myself situated, I went in to wake up Wes. I’ve never seen him wake up or move quite as fast as he did when I said, “Um, honey? My water broke.”

For the next hour or so, we made phone calls, finished packing our hospital bag, and waited for our friend Ryan to come and stay with James. I spent most of the time in the shower, which was a really great way to deal with contractions. By the time we left, they were about 2-3 minutes apart and lasting about 1 minute.

The drive to the hospital was the worst of my life. When we got in the car, Wes realized that we had no gas, so we had to stop at HEB. I was in enough pain that I leapt out of the car and wandered the gas station while he filled up, having several contractions in the minutes that getting gas required. The 30 minute trip to the hospital seemed like it would never end. I have never been so happy to arrive at the emergency room. Wes grabbed everything and we started making our way to labor and delivery, but I had to stop several times on the way because I could no longer walk or talk through contractions.

Our doula, Josie, met us at check-in, where Wes was able to fill out the one bit of paperwork required. I think the nurses recognized that I was in no mood to labor at their desk, so they got us into a room pretty quickly. They were a little worried about my fluid levels so I had an IV of saline for a short time. The nurses checked me and found I was 4 cm dilated—already as far as I had gotten with James and it had only been a couple of hours! We filled out more paperwork (so much paperwork!) and then labor set in even harder.

The next 4 or so hours is kind of a blur. I had major back labor so Josie and Wes took turns putting as much pressure as possible on my back during each contraction. I stood, I laid down, I got on all fours, and I told myself repeatedly that I just needed to get through one more contraction. Somewhere along the way my water fully broke—only the forebag had broken at home. At several points, I was sure that there was no way I could get through labor without pain medication. Without Josie and Wes, I’m sure I couldn’t have—they were so supportive. When I felt like I couldn’t take it any more, the nurses told me it was time to be checked again. I had already decided (in my own mind) that if I wasn’t at least 6 cm, I would ask for an epidural. I was at 9! I distinctly remember laughing somewhat and saying to everyone, “I think I might be able to do this!”

The nurses told me to let them know when I felt pressure because that would mean that pushing time was getting close. Not long after that check, I felt intense pressure—9.5 cm. They called the doctor and started getting the room ready for delivery. I know a whole bunch more people came in, but I don’t recall meeting any of them except Dr. Forbes; she was not my OB, but she was on call so there we were. The only moment during labor when I wanted to yell at/hit someone was when she came in during my “practice” pushes and told the nurses to call her back when I was closer to delivering. If I hadn’t been mid-contraction, we would have had some words…

Not long after that, pushing began in earnest, the doctor came back, and I became concerned again that I couldn’t do it. “The ring of fire” is no freaking joke. But when someone said, “I can see his hair!” I knew that I was going to bring this boy into the world. A few pushes later, he was out! I know it sounds cliché and crazy, but I instantly forgot all the pain, all of the fear, all of the challenges. Joseph was perfect; he screamed bloody murder until the moment they placed him on me. He was so content to lay on his Momma, and I could have stayed like that forever. I’m pretty sure Wes didn’t get to hold him for an hour or so. Oops. This birth was so redeeming for me, and just so amazing. It has been six weeks and I still can’t believe that I did it. And I’m more in love with this precious baby every day.

Wes: I stubbed my toe on the way into the prenatal ward. Worst pain anyone has ever experienced.