Thursday, May 22, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Milk
I had heard of donating breast milk for sick babies, and so I asked at the hospital if someone could help me make arrangements. I was at a smallish suburban hospital, and no one there knew anything about it. I was so determined that there had to be a way to make it happen that I asked them to bring me a breast pump anyway, so I could start my body on a regular pumping schedule. Looking back I must have seemed crazy.
With some help from my mother and husband, I tracked down Mother's Milk Bank of North Texas.
I pumped every 6 hours around the clock for the last 6 weeks, and I just weaned this past week in preparation for going back to work. As I read that, it seems sort of obsessive. But I am so grateful I did it. I had been very committed to breastfeeding Oliver and am a huge believer in the value of it, it broke my heart to waste the milk my body was working so hard to make for my lost son. The hospital I work at has a huge NICU, and so many of the babies can't tolerate formula but their moms are unable to pump enough milk for them due to premature delivery or other problems. My co-worker's daughter was born at 24 weeks, and she tells heartbreaking stories of her NICU physicians and nurses explaining again and again how much her weak, sick baby needed breast milk, and that she would pump and pump until her nipples bled only to get one ounce, or maybe two on a really good day. What an incredible gift I had to offer, then, that I could pump 8 ounces in a sitting without any trouble or complications. What better way to honor my son and begin to forgive my body. And I hope, had we suffered a different tragedy and had a need like that that I could not fill, that another mother would have reached out anonymously to help me and my child.
With some help from my mother and husband, I tracked down Mother's Milk Bank of North Texas.
I pumped every 6 hours around the clock for the last 6 weeks, and I just weaned this past week in preparation for going back to work. As I read that, it seems sort of obsessive. But I am so grateful I did it. I had been very committed to breastfeeding Oliver and am a huge believer in the value of it, it broke my heart to waste the milk my body was working so hard to make for my lost son. The hospital I work at has a huge NICU, and so many of the babies can't tolerate formula but their moms are unable to pump enough milk for them due to premature delivery or other problems. My co-worker's daughter was born at 24 weeks, and she tells heartbreaking stories of her NICU physicians and nurses explaining again and again how much her weak, sick baby needed breast milk, and that she would pump and pump until her nipples bled only to get one ounce, or maybe two on a really good day. What an incredible gift I had to offer, then, that I could pump 8 ounces in a sitting without any trouble or complications. What better way to honor my son and begin to forgive my body. And I hope, had we suffered a different tragedy and had a need like that that I could not fill, that another mother would have reached out anonymously to help me and my child.
Today is my second wedding anniversary. My husband is asleep in bed. If he knew I was awake I know he would want to talk, want to comfort me. But I got up quietly and tucked pillows next to him so he would continue to sleep. He's carried my pain in addition to his own so many times when I could not bear it, he deserves a break.
Our son Oliver was born and died on April 3rd, 2008. Actually, it would probably be more accurate to say he died late at night on April 2nd and was born on April 3rd at 39 weeks and 5 days. I had a perfectly healthy pregnancy. Oliver was perfectly healthy too, except that I know that from his autopsy and not from his apgar scores. He died during my early labor, probably because of the umbilical cord tucked next to his head that was compressed during contractions. During my lowest moments I think that literally means that my labor, my body, killed my baby. And I just want to die too.
Fortunately I'm more sane than that most of the time, which is good because I'm going back to work today. I'm afraid. I went to the allergist yesterday, and I filled out a questionnaire that asked "any recent hospitalizations?" I wrote "vaginal delivery." To be thorough or polite, or maybe both, she said "congratulations, and how is your baby?" I wanted to say "dead, thank you for asking." Sometimes I think I must really be an asshole, that I think of saying things like that to perfectly nice people, innocent bystanders to my tragedy. But I didn't. I mumbled something about "stillborn." And then she offered me a prescription for an antidepressant. She meant it as a kindness, the only way she could think of to ease my pain. But it seems absurd - a pill a day to fill the hole in my body and my soul that was my son.
Our son Oliver was born and died on April 3rd, 2008. Actually, it would probably be more accurate to say he died late at night on April 2nd and was born on April 3rd at 39 weeks and 5 days. I had a perfectly healthy pregnancy. Oliver was perfectly healthy too, except that I know that from his autopsy and not from his apgar scores. He died during my early labor, probably because of the umbilical cord tucked next to his head that was compressed during contractions. During my lowest moments I think that literally means that my labor, my body, killed my baby. And I just want to die too.
Fortunately I'm more sane than that most of the time, which is good because I'm going back to work today. I'm afraid. I went to the allergist yesterday, and I filled out a questionnaire that asked "any recent hospitalizations?" I wrote "vaginal delivery." To be thorough or polite, or maybe both, she said "congratulations, and how is your baby?" I wanted to say "dead, thank you for asking." Sometimes I think I must really be an asshole, that I think of saying things like that to perfectly nice people, innocent bystanders to my tragedy. But I didn't. I mumbled something about "stillborn." And then she offered me a prescription for an antidepressant. She meant it as a kindness, the only way she could think of to ease my pain. But it seems absurd - a pill a day to fill the hole in my body and my soul that was my son.
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