A Mother's Obsession

by Kimberly Kilgore

Every mother knows we women get a little crazy during pregnancy. We each have our own little obsessions. Will the baby be healthy? A boy? A girl? The obsession that I adopted was this: breastfeeding. Let me set the scene...

I am pregnant with my first child, anxious to do what's best for my baby. I register for labor classes in about the third week of pregnancy, and discover that a breastfeeding class is offered by my hospital. Great! I always liked school. Meanwhile, I read everything I can about the subject.

The weeks roll by. My belly button widens, my feet disappear. I'm intent on breastfeeding my baby, but there's the nagging notion that it may not "work." After all, a friend had a preemie at 28 weeks, and was not able to nurse. My cousin had kidney stones when she delivered (talk about the two worst pains in the world coinciding!) and could not nurse due to the medication. Every time I turn around, someone I know who planned to breastfeed was unable to. I start to worry. What if I can't do it? When is that class again? I've got to get a jump-start on this!

As the class approaches, there's a wrinkle. My husband, Doug, does not want to go. He's been a trooper: he held my hand at my prenatal visits and numerous ultrasounds, and took over most of the household duties when we learned I had placenta previa. He wrestled with, and eventually diapered, the plastic doll at "Infant Care" class. We don't have a clue what the breastfeeding class will entail, and he is concerned.

"What if they bring in someone to do a live demo? I'll be so embarrassed!"

"Honey, I'm sure they don't do that. Besides, I thought you'd be psyched to see a naked breast, since ... well, you know, you're a guy."

"I don't think guys are supposed to go."

"But I called and asked, and they said partners are more than welcome."

"Well, I think you and your two 'partners' can handle this one on your own."

This is when I disregard all the other wonderful things he has done for me throughout this pregnancy, and start pouting. "You are so uninvolved! You obviously don't care about me or your child!" (Et cetera. My sisters, you understand.) No dice - he refuses to learn how to breastfeed. I don't find the lack of mammary glands to be a particularly good excuse.

I attend the class alone, undaunted. That is, until I realize that I am the only woman there NOT accompanied by her husband. I am now convinced that I have the least supportive husband in the entire world, and ponder which foreign nation the baby and I should flee to. (Little do I know that at the very moment I am wondering where to get a fake passport, he's in a strategy session with his mom, planning my baby shower. Shame on me.)

Anyway, there wasn't much in the class that I hadn't already read about. The visuals were helpful; no live demo, but a video of new moms latching on their babies, trying different nursing positions. Oh, and an oversized plush breast - who needs Beanie Babies? I did, however, get thinking again about how this ancient, natural, beautiful art is often quite tricky. It took me nine years to learn to ride a bike ... what if my clumsiness extends to my ability to nurse?

I knew I was over the edge when I started practicing. At night, in my dreams. I dreamed that I was practicing my latch-on abilities, starring my husband as the newborn. Okay, a little kinky, but no big deal. Next, our cat and our dog became the baby stand-ins. I know pregnant women often have odd dreams, but I woke up positive I needed professional help.

By the time I was 28 weeks along, I was told that I would have to have a scheduled c-section because of the placenta previa. I was also told that if I had ANY spotting or bleeding, I was to call the doctor immediately. At 36 weeks, it happened. I came home from work, and worked a bit on my lesson plans for the next (and final) three days of teaching seventh grade. We were about to leave for our last night of birth class, but just as I was heading upstairs to grab our pillows I felt a gush. I still can't believe how calm I remained as I called to Doug, "Call the doctor; we've got to go to the hospital."

Dr. B. met us in Labor & Delivery. Because I was at 36 weeks, my OB decided an immediate c-section was the best course. He didn't want to risk waiting since, as he put it, another bleed could be "catastrophic." I maintained my calm as I received an epidural and underwent a cesarean section. A mere 45 minutes from the time we arrived at the hospital, our son was born.

Conor scored two eights on his Apgar, but moments later we were told that he was having difficulty breathing and they were taking him to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. The worry was that his lungs were underdeveloped, but it turned out that it was only a collapsed lung. I never imagined myself saying "Phew... ONLY a collapsed lung," about my newborn son, but we were assured that this was a far better scenario than premature lungs. This, they could fix fairly readily. So my tiny little boy went into the NICU, under an oxygen hood, and was hooked up to monitors and IV's. Except for the first kiss I gave him just seconds after delivery, I did not get to see him until the following morning.

Because of my friend's experience with her preemie, I did not think nursing would be a possibility. I wasn't able to hold my baby, and he was being fed intravenously. How could I possibly breastfeed him? That question was answered when my nurse arrived in my room wheeling a super deluxe double breast pump. She showed me how to get hooked up, and how to clean the parts after. And the best part: how to label the little bottles of milk and bring them to the NICU to store in the freezer until Conor was ready.

Two days later, he was. His nurse called my room to ask if I wanted to give him his first bottle of my milk. I flew, as fast as a woman recovering from a c-section can, to feed my baby. After a little initial trouble with sucking and swallowing, he was downing more milk with each feeding, and was weaned from the IV. Then, with the support of the NICU nurses and lactation consultants, we ditched the bottles. It took a few tries to get him latched on, but all of a sudden, "Ow ow ow ow ow!" I cried.

"Sounds like he's got it," the nurse smiled.

And so finally, after months of studying, waiting, and imagining, Conor and I began the magical relationship that can only exist between a mother and child. Certainly, it was tricky, and in the early days, sometimes painful. But for all my worries, nothing ever "worked" so very well.