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Bovine Chronicles: My Exclusive Pumping Journey
by Jessica Lane
Updated: May 6, 2021
Originally Published: Dec. 23, 2020
Photography by Jessica Lane
“Fed is best.” I repeated this mantra endlessly, assuring myself that if breastfeeding didn’t work out, it was perfectly fine. But once my little one arrived, my mantra quickly transformed into, “FED IS BREAST! BREAST IS BEST!” I became fixated on breastfeeding, wanting to provide my baby with my own natural nourishment. Sadly, our journey was riddled with challenges.
From the start, our latch was problematic. The lactation consultants at the hospital noted how strong my baby’s grip was, yet once we were home, things took a turn. Within a day, he was vomiting blood — my blood. My cracked and painful nipples were the culprits.
As we struggled through numerous attempts at breastfeeding, my baby’s weight, which had started at 6.8 pounds, began to decline alarmingly. It felt like we were constantly at the pediatrician’s office, and each visit left me in tears as his weight percentile sank lower and lower. Fearing for his health, I embarked on the exhausting trifecta of breastfeeding, pumping, and bottle feeding. I hoped this would increase my milk supply and help him gain weight. I was advised to pump after every feeding, leading to sessions every 1-1.5 hours, resulting in an exhausting twelve pumping sessions a day.
We hoped that a tongue-tie procedure would solve our problems and help my baby become a proficient breast feeder. But soon, we faced the horror of mastitis, a nightmare for nursing mothers. It didn’t strike my newly developed breasts but rather my baby’s swollen left nipple. In a panic, we rushed to the local Children’s Hospital ER after another tearful pediatrician visit.
Alongside mastitis (neonatal mastitis), our baby also developed two other concerning infections on his extremities. Doctors worried about a systemic infection and suggested a spinal tap for further investigation. From the pediatrician’s office to the ER, hours passed since his last bottle. I didn’t have a pump with me, and our limited breastfeeding failed to keep him hydrated. Both spinal taps were inconclusive.
After a traumatic 36 hours at the hospital, I began my exclusive pumping journey. No latch was required. Just two flanges, two duckbill valves, backflow protectors, tubing, a pump, and an electrical outlet. This glorified vacuum became my lifeline, consistently and predictably providing milk for my baby.
I mourned the loss of my idealized version of breastfeeding. I felt anger towards myself for not being strong enough to keep trying, frustration with my baby for his poor latch, and jealousy towards other mothers who seemed to breastfeed effortlessly. While they could whip out their breasts in a moment’s notice, I was tethered to a machine, feeling like a prisoner.
Exclusively pumping was never my plan, but since that was my reality, I was determined to be the best pumper out there! I bought all the necessary accessories — silicone flanges, hacks to pump into bottles, and a massager that looked suspiciously like a vibrator to tackle clogged ducts. I pumped for a full 30 minutes each session until my once dark nipples (or “mocha choca lattes,” as my partner jokingly called them) transformed into pink, elongated versions of themselves.
My sessions yielded anywhere from 11 to 18 ounces. I had become a certified cow! “B*tch I’m A Cow” by Doja Cat became my personal anthem. Finding a chest freezer to store my liquid gold during the COVID era was a challenge, but I eventually located a dented one that could safely hold my stash.
Pleased with my production, I didn’t mind the hours spent pumping, sterilizing, and preparing bottles. I walked into the pediatrician’s office full of hope that my little one would finally thrive! Ironically, despite my ample milk supply and his seven-ounce bottles, he had dropped to the 1st percentile in weight. It seemed my body produced only skim milk.
Not only had I struggled with breastfeeding, but I now felt like a failure in nourishing my child. Despite my initial resistance to formula, I had no choice but to start supplementing. This led to another wave of grief and disappointment. However, as my son began to develop his first adorable wrist rolls, my worries faded, replaced by gratitude for the magic of Enfamil.
Fast forward six months — after two months of gradual weaning — I completed my last pumping session. I slowly folded my teal hands-free pumping bra, sterilized my flanges for the final time, and gazed at the last 1.5 ounces my once prodigious nipples could produce. As I looked at my pump, I felt a wave of unexpected sadness. I reminisced about the trials I had faced — dead batteries, forgotten flanges, broken tubes, clogged ducts, and milk bleps.
Despite my desire to end my relationship with this device, we had shared a long and difficult journey. I allowed myself to sit with these emotions, reflecting on my experience… alongside my trusty Spectra.
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Summary:
In this personal account, Jessica Lane shares her tumultuous journey with exclusive pumping after struggling with breastfeeding. From painful latching issues and health crises to her determination to produce milk, she navigates the emotional challenges of motherhood and the unexpected outcomes of her feeding journey. Ultimately, she reflects on her experiences with both sadness and gratitude.
Keyphrase: Exclusive pumping journey
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