Not Enough Milk

Shortly after Owen was born on a Wednesday morning, I snuggled him closely to my chest and offered him my breast. He took it immediately and eagerly. I remember we were connected that way for forty minutes... and I was so in awe and impressed. I so badly wanted to breastfeed and my little baby was on the same program. That night he cluster fed for hours and hours, and I sleepily obliged. It finally ceased maybe around 2am and we all slept until the doctors made rounds that morning. Aside from a bit of discomfort, breastfeeding went well in the hospital. I had lactation consultants see me, assess my holds, look at his latch, and give me loads of information. I got all positive feedback.

Five days after he was born, we had his first check up, and he was already 3oz above his birth-weight at 8lbs 7oz. They don't necessarily anticipate that happening until 2 weeks of age, but here we were at barely a week and he was soaring! We were breastfeeding superstars, and I loved it. Our next appointment was in one month.

In the days leading up to his appointment I grew nervous. I had this nagging feeling that he hadn't gained any weight. I remember distinctly a moment where I was feeding him, and while he was cradled in my arms I felt his tiny ribs. They seemed more prominent than before. His stools had also been watery, not seedy and yellow like I knew to expect.

At the pediatrician's office I undressed him and walked him to the scale. The weight that registered blew me away. Owen had actually lost weight. And not mere ounces... and entire pound. Owen was 7lbs 7oz. The nurse zeroed the scale and said, “No, put him back on.” I became tearful and felt the lump growing in my throat. I was so embarrassed  I know now that the nurse was only giving me and Owen the benefit of the doubt... but at the time I hated having to see that number twice. I was mortified.

In the examining room, in private, I swaddled him back up and tried to choke down the embarassment, shame, and guilt. I was blinking back tears. I remember thinking, “Devastated. That's how I feel. That's putting it lightly.” How could I let this happen to my baby?

The physician came in and spoke gently to me, and explained that she wanted me to supplement formula after my breastfeeding sessions. Owen was not getting enough milk from my breasts alone. As much as I didn't want to supplement, I accepted the recommendation without hesitation. My pride and my feelings about breastfeeding were far less important than the health of my son. I remember giving him that first bottle at home, and the vigor with which he took it. I cried the entire time. He was so hungry! How could I not know? I felt so unfit as a mother – so ashamed. 

In the weeks that came, I met with a lactation consultant. We developed a plan that would hopefully encourage my supply of breast milk. It involved taking six pills three times a day, and pumping after every single feeding, around the clock, for a week. I was so so dedicated, I promised I could do it, and I did. It was maybe my worst week postpartum – it was terribly hard. I think the worst part for me was pumping pumping pumping and never seeing more than a fraction of an ounce at the end of a pumping session. I equated the amount of milk I was pumping to my amount of self-worth. It was during that week I developed postpartum depression. 

I never felt an increase in my supply from the interventions I was prescribed, but I truly believe that my depression was a barrier to my supply increasing. Back at the lactation consultant's office, we developed a plan, the consultant, my husband and I. I was going to continue to breast and bottle feed until shortly before work when I would wean and we would exclusively formula feed.

On the ride home, I tearfully asked my husband if I'd disappointed him or let him down. After all – I wasn't just feeding my baby, this was our baby, and he'd wanted breastfeeding to be successful, too. He insisted that he wasn't – he knew I had done everything asked of me to try to get my supply back to where it should be. Moving forward we were making the best choice for us.