Deja vu

by Sharon M. Wailes

This is a story about the challenges of major surgery and about deja vu.

I was 28 when I got pregnant with my first son. At my first prenatal visit, the doctor examined me pretty thoroughly and noticed a small lump on my thyroid gland. He said, "It's probably nothing, but let's get it checked out."

The next month, the lump was twice as big. I got it checked out, and it was clear that is was a nodule and would have to be removed. However, general anesthesia was not an option at that point in the pregnancy. I would have to wait until after the baby was born.

I was told to go in for surgery two weeks postpartum after I had recovered from childbirth. I knew that two weeks was a crucial point in breastfeeding, so I scheduled the surgery for four weeks postpartum. I meticulously planned how I was going to mini-wean the baby from the breast to take a bottle and then unwean him after I had gotten home. He would have to have formula for at least one entire day while the anesthesia left my body. So I made out an elaborate schedule with each meal planned - which ones would be formula and which would be from the breast. I also rented a breast pump for afterward in case I needed to boost my production.

After the surgery, I pumped and dumped, except one of the male nurses was reluctant to dump my breastmilk (it gave him the willies even to touch the bottle it was in - go figure). Half of my thyroid was removed, and the initial biopsy showed no sign of cancer.

The next day, I was allowed to go home. When I walked in the door, a phone call came saying that a second, more accurate biopsy, had shown cancer cells. I was to return in three days to have the second half of my thyroid removed. I was devastated. I followed my meticulous routine again with breastfeeding, formula feeding and pumping. After I returned home, I was able to nurse my baby for another three months until I needed a treatment with radioiodine, which in effect poisoned my milk.

Three years later I became pregnant again. I had another son and wished to breastfeed him also. I considered breastfeeding to be something that needs to be worked at, and therefore an accomplishment for both mother and child. After one month (on Dec. 30, New Year's Eve Eve), I sat quietly one evening in a rare moment when baby had gone to sleep early enough for me to be able to sit quietly without immediately falling asleep, and thought to myself, "Wow. Baby and I are finally in a pretty good rhythm now. It's so much easier to recover from childbirth when one doesn't need major surgery directly afterward!"

The birth had not been as much easier as second ones sometimes are, but the recovery had gone amazingly fast. But, the very next morning (New Year's Eve) at about 4 a.m., I awoke with severe abdominal pain. I thought, "This is almost as bad as labor," and began to contemplate seriously which was really worse.

Eventually, I ended up in the emergency room where a surgeon came in, poked at my belly, and said I had appendicitis and would be going into surgery in a few hours. I said, "Can I rent one of those hospital pumps?" And in my mind I added, "again?"

I thought of my poor husband being stuck at home (in a blizzard, I might add) with my three year old and newborn - poor guy! So I had surgery, I pumped, I went home, etc., etc. (sound familiar?) This time, however, I had not planned it, so I assumed I would have to pump and feed the baby indirectly for as long as I wanted to breastfeed. I thought that after a total of four days, he would certainly have forgotten how to nurse and would prefer the bottle. Just for the heck of it, I decided to put him on the breast anyway. After all, what did I have to lose? Sure enough, he latched on perfectly, as if I had never been away. So the story has a happy ending after much trial, pain and effort and thanks to my talented infant.