Redemption & Betrayal

After loathing my body as a whole and my breasts in particular for over a decade, I fell pregnant in my mid-20's. My breasts swelled to an unmanageable size. Coupled with my enormous belly, I of course suffered some back pain and couldn't sleep most of my pregnancy. As this pregnancy was a "surprise" and my at-the-time fiance was in graduate school, I didn't have an extra $80 to buy a supportive bra that I would wear for maybe three months. I knew that my breasts would grow with my belly and expand even more after I eventually gave birth. I eked through my pregnancy with ill-fitting bras and clothes.

My birth was an utter failure. Being my first pregnancy, I conceived a wonderful birth plan that had me delivering in water at an off-site birth center. My son was 15 days late and my care was transferred over to a hospital where I was induced. Thirty hours after the induction, my cervix had opened to barely three centimeters and the baby's heart rate was starting to drop. I had a c-section. I cried. My birth was everything I did not want it to be. My body was the hospital's playground from the time I checked in until the surgeon sliced through my uterus. Everything that was supposed to be natural and wonderful about being pregnant, the birth and the the strength I thought I had within, didn't exist. The emotional trauma lasted several months postpartum and wasn't fully exorcised until I had my second baby three years later.

But my breasts, my wonderful breasts, redeemed my disaster of a birth. My newborn son latched onto my darkened nipple and began to suckle while in the recovery room. Nursing was so natural and so easy, that the experience brought a begrudging acceptance to my stretched marked body.

My oldest was exclusively breast fed until he was 16 months old. By then I longed for my body to be mine again. I wanted my breasts to resume their sexual status. It was difficult for me to let go of the instant comfort suckling brought my teary eyed boy when he fell or was frightened. My breasts were lovely, soft objects of comfort to the world's sweetest child. How could I hate my own body when it brought forth and sustained life? How could I hate my breasts which my son loved? My breasts were his direct line of comfort, love, and nourishment.

With my second pregnancy I knew what to expect of my body. I knew I would vomit for nine months and I knew I was not going to attempt a vaginal birth. My planned c-section was a wonderful experience and allowed me to fully heal from the trauma of my first birth. My absolute confidence in breast feeding allowed me to surprise the lactation consultant when I pumped an ounce of milky colostrum out of each breast only a day after delivering.

The pumping of breast milk continued when I was home. My freezer was proudly full of frozen breast milk. I had such an abundance of milk that I was considering selling it on the black market to the fetish community. However, when my daughter was only six weeks old, I developed a lump on the top of my right breast.

I watched this flat red bump swell over the next week until it was a large boil. Towards the end of the week I woke up at 3am in severe pain and drove myself to urgent care. The infection was lanced and pus removed. The doctors packed the wound and antibiotics prescribed. I was told to continue nursing and that it would assist in clearing my mastitis, a breast infection common in nursing mothers. Because the wound was so severe, I had to return to urgent care the following night to redress my wound.

By next night the infection had spread; red spider veins enveloped my entire right breast and it was hot to the touch. The doctors immediately put me on IV antibiotics and told me I had to stop nursing because the antibiotics were lethal to my newborn baby. I had to return to the urgent care for several nights to receive two hour IV doses of Vancomycin, a drug my husband studied in graduate school. My official diagnosis was MRSA - Methicillin-Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus. Mastitis is a common breast infection caused by Staphylococcus (staph) for nursing mothers; my common breast infection turned lethal because it was a MRSA strain of Staphylococcus.

While I was sick and under medical care for this virulent infection, I had to stop nursing. I pumped and dumped my precious breast milk for two weeks in hopes of keeping my milk supply up so I could resume breastfeeding after the infection was purged. My freezer supply lasted three days and a friend donated some of her breast milk but by day four we resorted to powdered formula.

The difference between bottle feeding and breastfeeding is never more extreme than at the 12am, 230am, and 5am feedings. To pick up your rustling baby, lift your shirt and latch her to the breast while laying down in your darkened room is easy. To pull yourself out of your bed, wander into the kitchen with its too bright lights and measure out a bottle while your baby's screams intensify is jarring and stressful. To add to the stress, my daughter was mostly breast fed, barely taking a bottle a day. As I coaxed the silicone nipple in her mouth, she waged war and fought for my nipple, my milk. I sobbed in the dark as I fed her from the bottle neither of us wanted.

This caused a disconnection in the bonding experience. I had what she wanted - my lovely, soft, milky breasts. She could smell my milk and I couldn't give it to her. I was terrified I'd pass the infection to her and in my extreme sleep deprived state, the thought she didn't love me because I stole my breasts from her plagued me. This notion that she didn't love me was exacerbated when her father, not me, received her first smile during my imposed nursing hiatus. I felt crushed and defeated. My formally redemptive breasts turned against me.

Eventually I was treated for postpartum anxiety. I believe that while I would have gone through an extreme version of the emotional and hormonal adjustment all new mothers undergo, my condition was worsened by my infection and not being able to nurse my baby. After I completed my course of antibiotics, I resumed breastfeeding but had to retrain my two month old daughter because she'd grown used to the bottle.

My breasts acted as redeemer for my first baby and potentially killed me the second time around. I was later told by my childrens' pediatrician that I was lucky I didn't lose my breast. The only permanent marking of my infection is a small, flesh colored disc that is barely half the size of a dime. A teeny scar for such an ordeal.