The Struggle of Breastfeeding and the Surprising Pain of Letting It Go

My son’s first action in this world was rooting for my nipple and perfectly feeding as though he was born to do so. He mastered breastfeeding before he had a name. I would like to take some credit for this miracle, but we know that a baby’s ability to breastfeed or not rarely has anything to do with the mother’s willingness or disposition. While my infant may have come in to the world ready for breastfeeding, I was certainly not ready for the task at hand.

There was never any discussion between my husband and I about whether I was going to breastfeed or not. As natural lifestyle advocates, breastfeeding seemed like the natural thing to do. While he was confident in my body’s ability to perform this task, I was full of doubt and fear that my body would fail all three of us. Three years prior I had watched my sister struggle to nurse my newborn niece. Her body was producing milk, but my niece would not latch. Despite hours of exhausted effort on my sister’s part and our mother’s near insistence that she persevere. Spoiler alert: she didn’t and my niece is none the worse for her early diet of bottle fed formula. In fact, she is a bright and beautiful 4 year old, perfectly healthy and happy in every way. So while I knew that there was no harm in bottle feeding my baby, I was still fearful of failing at breastfeeding.

These fears did not come to pass. My son took to the breast like a fish to water, but our breastfeeding journey was not without other terrors and trials. It was apparent from the get-go that breastfeeding did something to me. I recall nursing while sitting in the pink mid-century glider I adored and suddenly feeling ill. Deep in the pit of my stomach I was uneasy, and I was awash in something evil and lonesome, like homesickness. I was euphorically in love with my baby, but these dark moments in nursing were dimming the glow of that newborn baby bliss. Research conducted by both my husband and I revealed that I was likely suffering from Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex, or D-MER. The National Institute of Health describes this little known disorder as “an abrupt emotional ‘drop’ that occurs in some women just before milk release”. They believe it to be a physiological anomaly, but not much research has been conducted on the issue.

As time passed, my postpartum hormones regulated and I returned to work (i.e. breastfed less) and thankfully, the intensity of the D-MER anguish waned. Returning to work did not occur without presenting its own bevy of new problems, mountains of guilt and pain, both physical and emotional. Many working mothers experience some level of guilt upon returning to work, however knowing this did not prepare me for the all-encompassing and constant guilt that made it hard for me to focus on my job. At work, I worried whether I had left an adequate supply of milk for my son. I fretted that he would be hungry and missing his mother. I stressed that he was far too young to be left in the care of anyone but me. On top of having a terrible unpaid maternity leave policy that had me back at work far too soon, there was nowhere private or comfortable in the office for me to pump. I couldn’t bring myself to pump my son’s food source in a public restroom, so this led to me spending my lunch breaks driving around searching for a secluded area in which I could park and pump in peace. Somedays would be heinously busy at the office and all staff members would forfeit lunch breaks. On these days, I would drive home in tears, my breasts so engorged I thought they would burst. Or else I would endure my lengthy shifts with milk leaking down my spare shirt, trying to cover the leak with a sweater. This was spilled milk I did cry over. Needless to say, I am no longer working at that office. It quickly became too much for me to struggle with the guilt of leaving my months-old infant behind every day, and as my milk supply dwindled my husband and I made the choice to sacrifice my income so I (and my milk) could stay home with the baby.

As a stay at home mom, I quickly discovered that not going to work meant no breaks for me, or my boobs. My son was a voracious eater, and with mom home all day everyday, he treated my breasts like an all you can eat buffet. I had a hard time maintaining the nutrition needed to sustain the two of us. I suffered fainting spells and migraines.

Eventually though, we found our groove. I learned how to eat around the clock, my son learned that my breasts weren’t going anywhere and he slowed down his nursing. The introduction of solid foods and the long awaited ability to sleep through the night cut down a lot of our nursing sessions. Although I had my fair share of struggles breastfeeding, there were many ways in which I absolutely loved it. There was a special feeling in knowing I was the singular person in Rainer’s life that could provide him with this. Sure, his dad could make him laugh like a hyena even in the middle of a gasping cry fest, but I could build his bones, I could layer those cheeks with cherubic chub. I loved the quiet special moments that passed between us during nursing, the gratitude in his still blue baby eyes, a soft hand emerging from a cocoon of blankets to graze my cheek, an “I love you” in baby language.

Soon my baby’s smile had teeth. The chubby little legs lengthened and slendered as he went from crawling to walking to running. The blue eyes faded to a grey brown that I cherished as much as the baby blues. One day it occurred to me that we were only nursing first thing in the morning and at night before bed. I was in disbelief that my baby, seemingly obsessed with nursing, was weaning himself. In the throes of my breastfeeding woes, I was sure that the sore nipples, the engorged breasts, the hormonal ups and downs would last an eternity. But here I was, facing the end of an era. Instead of the glee I expected at the prospect of having my bosom and my body all to myself again, I was surprised to find myself overcome with a bleak heartache. I was reluctant to aid the weaning process. In my heart I knew that this was it: we were crossing the final frontier of babydom, leaving it behind for good and entering the terrifying new territory of toddlerhood. No more gummy smiles, no more baby coos, no longer a small, soft fist wrapped instinctively around my index finger, and no more breastfeeding.

The first night Rainer fell asleep without nursing, I cried. It was in this moment that I realized parenthood involves a lot of mourning the child you had while meeting the child you have. There can be such a large disconnect between the stages of childhood, however each stage is such a unique delight ,you’ll only have time to mourn so long before you are swept off your feet by an older, smarter, and just as beautiful version of your baby.

That night I mourned those months of infancy, and I still reflect upon them with the golden glimmer of hindsight. I don’t recall much of the time I spent hating breastfeeding, all the pain, all the guilt. I only reflect on those sweet, quiet moments we shared during nursing. Now breastfeeding feels lifetimes away, and I wonder what unforseen blessing I’m mistaking for a bane as my son and I traverse the land of toddlerhood together.

To learn more about Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex, check out https://d-mer.org/.
To learn more about your rights as a breastfeeding mother, visit http://www.usbreastfeeding.org/workplace-law. If your rights are being violated, speak up!