I was blessed enough to be able to nurse all my babies. I nursed. Pumping I hated. When Mar was born and they put her on my chest her arm was so cold I couldn’t even focus and then she was gone. Hours later the sweet recovery nurse rolled in my new normal. A yellow breast pump. I couldn’t imagine the discomfort I would felt had this been my first time, but with experience I grabbed all the parts and got to work. Within a short time my “out of this world” momma drove my golden milk over to the baby at children’s. I was alone. And had very little answers as to what was going on. My tv didn’t work to distract me. And that day while my mom ferried precious cargo her mom was laid to rest. I felt words that I can’t even describe. I saw the significance of that. And so, I pumped. I pumped so much the lactation consultant almost fell out of her chair- new mommas usually don’t have much. I had full bottles. When I got to the hospital the next day I was ready to get my hands on that baby. Except she wasn’t ready for me- her hand covered in zero form. She was about to have the bandage changed. I had to wait. Then people came to visit. And I desperately wanted her. Wait. My body was more ready for her than she was when I finally got her that I had to keep pumping. Round the clock. I read another momma’s blog about how a nurse washed the parts late one night when she was too tired and how this simple act was beyond words. She was right. I had a husband and a mom that did that round the clock. My body was tough, but hospital life is tougher when you are on the sidelines and recovering. Pumping.
Then came surgery day. NPO. There’s a sick feeling you get when you know that if your baby cries after that hour that you will not be able to nurse her. Comfort her. My body responded in a way that outstretched it’s capacity to hold milk and so deep under my armpit came a trail of milk ducts that filled up. Engorgement. It was unbelievable. With no baby to nurse on I didn’t pump this time. She was nestled for seven straight hours in my lap before they took her down that I was afraid to move out of that glider. Afraid to wake her for she couldn’t nurse. We sat there together frozen listening to our quiet acoustic music for God that time passed and I didn’t pump, didn’t sleep, didn’t talk. Just Mar and I rhythmically rocking together in that striped plastic covered chair.
Mar didn’t nurse for two more days after that, and then only a bottle for the next day. You would have thought I won the lottery when I finally got to nurse again. Engorgment finally subsided after several more days with the help of the amazing lactation staff at the hospital. And pumping finally stopped hurting (they make sizes for flanges FYI- life changing!!).
The second surgery NPO was not so serene, but I held that first one close to my chest to guide me on the second one. And I pumped. Doctors in doctors out. Nurses. Staff. Everyone quietly peering back the rainbow curtain always startled to interrupt my pumping. I got less inhibited and one particular rounds they suggested coming back my husband says we’ll never see you if you wait for her to stop pumping. It wasn’t mean, just fact. Uncomfortably, we all laughed. They rounded. Pumping. The day I turned that yellow pump back to the hospital was glorious. It meant I didn’t need hospital grade anymore and my baby could nurse whenever- at home.
I still have to occasionally pump. My dainty gray and white printed bag sits upright in the closet poised and ready to be of service. I love the bag. I love that it’s so much prettier than the Pump in Style I had 12 years ago. I love that it gives me this amazing thing that I know so many out there can’t provide despite how hard they try. But, I will also love the day that I get to retire it to storage, even if I’m crying because I know it’s the end of my pumping.
Then came surgery day. NPO. There’s a sick feeling you get when you know that if your baby cries after that hour that you will not be able to nurse her. Comfort her. My body responded in a way that outstretched it’s capacity to hold milk and so deep under my armpit came a trail of milk ducts that filled up. Engorgement. It was unbelievable. With no baby to nurse on I didn’t pump this time. She was nestled for seven straight hours in my lap before they took her down that I was afraid to move out of that glider. Afraid to wake her for she couldn’t nurse. We sat there together frozen listening to our quiet acoustic music for God that time passed and I didn’t pump, didn’t sleep, didn’t talk. Just Mar and I rhythmically rocking together in that striped plastic covered chair.
Mar didn’t nurse for two more days after that, and then only a bottle for the next day. You would have thought I won the lottery when I finally got to nurse again. Engorgment finally subsided after several more days with the help of the amazing lactation staff at the hospital. And pumping finally stopped hurting (they make sizes for flanges FYI- life changing!!).
The second surgery NPO was not so serene, but I held that first one close to my chest to guide me on the second one. And I pumped. Doctors in doctors out. Nurses. Staff. Everyone quietly peering back the rainbow curtain always startled to interrupt my pumping. I got less inhibited and one particular rounds they suggested coming back my husband says we’ll never see you if you wait for her to stop pumping. It wasn’t mean, just fact. Uncomfortably, we all laughed. They rounded. Pumping. The day I turned that yellow pump back to the hospital was glorious. It meant I didn’t need hospital grade anymore and my baby could nurse whenever- at home.
I still have to occasionally pump. My dainty gray and white printed bag sits upright in the closet poised and ready to be of service. I love the bag. I love that it’s so much prettier than the Pump in Style I had 12 years ago. I love that it gives me this amazing thing that I know so many out there can’t provide despite how hard they try. But, I will also love the day that I get to retire it to storage, even if I’m crying because I know it’s the end of my pumping.
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