Monday, January 19, 2009

More Than Just Breastfeeding

I stopped breastfeeding on Boxing Day.

It wasn't my choice and it definitely wasn't Sophia's.

When the attending doctor at the KKH 24-hour clinic told me that I needed a jab to deal with my ectopic pregnancy, I didn't expect I'd have to stop breastfeeding. I asked the obvious question, and it was a good thing I did, if not, I'd had gone on breastfeeding, oblivious to the dangers.


"When can I start again?"

"After three months."

"But after three months, there'll be nothing left!"

"You're sure I can't breastfeed at all?"

"I'm sorry but what we're giving you is a mild form of chemotherapy. This drug
(methotrexate) kills cells. You can't breastfeed."

A shrug, an attempt at a smile and a pause to let the facts sink in.

Sigh.

In truth, I was more upset and traumatized over not being able to breastfeed than the whole ectopic mess. I'd suspected that things were going awry, what with the positive home test kit and the spotting and bleeding that wouldn't seem to stop. That and the numerous blood tests at the 24-hour clinic that seemed to point to a sombre ending to this whole episode. In a way, I was prepared for the bad news. I'd actually come out on the winning end as we'd detected the mishap early enough so that it wouldn't affect my tubes. Stopping breastfeeding, however, was the last thing on my mind and the last thing that I wanted to do.

It was the pits, not only because I couldn't give Sophie the comfort she required but also because my boob hurt like hell from all that unreleased milk due to the sudden stop. It was like having engorged breasts all over again.

And I steeled myself for what I figured would be a tough first night dealing with Sophie.

She didn't disappoint. Sophie's usual routine is a drink before bed. When she found she was denied that, she went into a crying jag, a loooong crying jag. I don't blame the poor dear, I would have myself since I hadn't prepared her at all for this. I substituted the boob with her bottle of water but she couldn't understand why she couldn't just suckle before bed. And so the crying progressed into screaming and head-pounding on the mattress. And then it went into all out limb flailing. Alternate it all and draw it out for 30 minutes or more. She'd calm down a bit and then ask for nenn-nenn and the whole drama would unfold yet again. Finally exhausted from her bout of crying, she fell asleep amidst hiccups.

I felt like the worst mother in the world.

The whole episode repeated itself sometime in the middle of the night when she woke up looking for boob again. Another 30-45 minuntes of agonizing torture for the three of us. I mentally prepared myself for another few exhausting nights like this.

Strangely enough, they never came. By the next day, she did try to ask for nenn-nenn, but mildly, and when I apologised and told her I just couldn't give her boob, she didn't cry. She accepted her milk in her sippy cup instead. At night, she tried her luck but once again, I told her very nicely that I wasn't able to giver her nenn-nenn anymore and she accepted her water bottle with no fuss. When she woke for a drink in the middle of the night, she was satisfied with water as well.

I was relieved that it'd turned out so well. More than just a little relieved, I was astounded that she'd caught on so fast and didn't make more of a fuss. I'm just glad that the little angel spared me more nights of agonizing torture. It was one less thing to deal with guilt, I could just focus on easing the discomfort of an engorged boob (both boobs were still functioning but one was the main production plant).

I still harboured hopes that I could breastfeed her after the three month waiting period. On second thoughts though, she is old enough to be weaned off the breast and I didn't want to have to go through what we went through another time around.

What I miss most about breastfeeding is the ease of giving her milk; no need for lugging around powdered formula and hot water when we go out so I can prepare her milk for her, just pop a boob in her mouth when she wants. More than that, I miss the closeness of lying down beside her while she nurses and tries to turn her lower body at an angle away from me or stretch a foot into my face. I miss holding her close in a snug chair while we're in a breastfeeding room away from the hustle and bustle of a noisy mall.

Stopping breastfeeding is another milestone for both Sophie and me on her path to becoming an independent toddler and less of a dependent baby. It's just one of the many apron strings that I've had to cut on the way to her impending adulthood and my growth as a parent. Recovering from the ectopic mess is something I have to go through to value the importance of good health in life.

Neither's easy but necessary.




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