The Gift of Milk

We found out that Owen had a heart issue two days before his birth. As soon as he was born, he was whisked away to have an echocardiogram and then immediately taken to the NICU to start prostoglandins to keep his heart functioning. I knew right away that we wouldn't be "rooming in" and that working on breastfeeding wasn't going to be a focus. As an experienced lactation counselor myself, I wasn't sure what lay ahead for us but I knew that being separated from my baby meant that I needed a pumping routine, stat.

I began pumping every 3 hours. For the first few days it was the requisite drops. And even me, someone so experienced, someone who spent countless hours telling other new moms not to worry, “the milk will come!”, was struggling. I cried over the precious drops that I couldn't reach with the syringe. I celebrated when I reached my first full syringe of colostrum. And every day and night I walked that precious liquid gold down the hall, up the elevator to the NICU. I kept copious notes of my pumping times and amounts and what feeding the milk would be for.

Eventually the milk came, and I was so happy. Mothering through breastfeeding is easily my favorite part of mothering a new baby and I had conquered the first hurdle--I had milk!

For the first 11 days of his life, Owen drank my milk. Sometimes by feeding tube, mostly by bottle, and a few times he tried by breast. Often he was too tired to latch well and figuring out how to hold him with all his lines was hard and frustrating. But honestly, I didn't care how he got the milk and I kept the faith that he'd breastfeed again eventually. I kept pumping 7-8 times a day all throughout my 6 day hospital stay in Homburg, on the C17, in the hotel once we got to DC, in room 377. It sort of became a joke...Nicole's pumping again! It was the only thing I could control. Quickly I began filling freezers with the extra milk that Owen wasn’t drinking. Our hotel room had a full size freezer--full. The allotted space for me at the hospital--full. The manager of the hotel allowed me to store milk in their kitchen freezer when I ran out of room everywhere else!

The night before his surgery Owen latched and nursed for 20 minutes and fell asleep content in my arms! It was our first real breastfeed. And our last. I owe this experience to our nurse, Nora who suggested we give him a bath, which we'd never done, followed by holding him skin to skin. As I was holding him, he initiated the breastfeed and I was amazed at how well he did, how natural it felt. It is my favorite memory with my sweet boy.

Owen's surgery was on December 7th and other than a few milk dipped pacifiers to work on sucking skills after surgery, he never took my milk again. But throughout his stay in the hospital, we kept the faith that he would recover. So I kept pumping 7-8 times a day, waking in the night to an alarm every 3 hours. I kept up this routine for a total of 36 days.

Once Owen passed, I needed to find a home for the milk I had saved. I knew there were plenty of people out there who would take it, but I just couldn't bring myself to give it to a stranger. Donating to a bank or hospital requires a multi-step screening process that I just didn't have the time or emotional energy for. I was devastated at the thought of it not going to my baby and longed for it to go to someone I knew. And I had a lot…Each time I pumped, I would collect 4-6 ounces of milk, for an average of about 35 ounces per day. Taking out what Owen consumed, the rough math equates to over 1,000 ounces of breastmilk now frozen into little bricks spread out among 3 freezers.

Because life is funny, it just so happens that a wonderful couple we met a few years ago when they were adopting their daughter now live in DC. They are preparing to adopt another baby who is due in March—a little boy. So that's where the milk went, and I am so grateful, probably just as grateful as they are to have it, that it is going somewhere that it will be used and appreciated.

As I write this, my body is no longer making milk and I don't pump anymore. I was able to slowly wean my pumping frequency down since Owen's passing, thus reducing the amount of milk my body would make. It's been a terrible, sad experience to continue to make milk for a baby I will never feed again. I considered "bereavement pumping donation" which is something some mothers do as a way to honor the baby they've lost. Those mothers say they feel closer to their baby through this act of continuing to make, express, and donate their milk. I don't. I feel like I am betraying him. I feel like my body is betraying me. In the early days, Jay would sit with me while I pumped and cried. It hurt my body and my heart every time the milk began to flow. I wish it wasn't that way though. I would give anything to have another way to feel close to Owen.

Anything.

And while I’m grateful to have donated my milk to a loving family that I know, I simultaneously am grieving the loss of a breastfeeding experience I was so excited to have.

Did I mention grief feels like shit?