“Are You Nursing?”

This is a question that stirs within me so much anxiety. I fight back tears and fake a polite smile as I respond, “We do a combination of both,” as if it’s any of their business.

When baby A was born, we had trouble getting him to latch at first. He was such a tiny little nugget with an itty bitty mouth. With help from a lactation consultant, however, I was shown how to encourage a deep one by holding him like a football.

Good. Great.

I was assured that my body would produce everything he needed as long as I kept him on the breast.

We were back in hospital one week later because of dehydration.

“Have you felt your milk come in, yet?”

Yes? I don’t know.

“Your milk should have come in by now.”

Again with the checking of the latch, but this time it was coupled with the grabbing and squeezing of my breasts without warning. Contorting me into positions I couldn’t even get myself into without help. One hundred pillows, it seemed like. More squeezing.

“How often does he feed?”

Pretty much every hour.

“He needs to eat every 3 hours, and no longer than 15 minutes per side. Then you should pump for 15 minutes after every feed.”

Okay.

“How are you doing with the pump?”

“You really should be producing more.”

“If you don’t get enough sleep, you won’t produce milk.”

“Keep the baby on the breast.”

“You need to eat.”

“Have you gotten a shower yet?”

More squeezing. The baby and I are crying while my partner watches in horror. The baby still isn’t peeing.

“You need to eat.”

“Keep the baby on the breast.”

“You really should be producing more.”

“We want to see at least 30 grams a day weight gain before we feel comfortable letting him go home.”

Grab. Squeeze. Change position. Pump on strongest setting.

Only drops.

This went on for an entire week. Everyone in the pediatrics ward saw me in my most humiliating state. They would come in without knocking every ten minutes it seemed. I’m greasy because I haven’t had time to shower. I’m shirtless, sobbing and trying to feed my baby the way nature had intended. My lunch gets cold. I can’t eat until the baby settles because I have at least three sets of eyes burning into me, waiting for me to make the “right” decision – but he doesn’t because he’s hungry.

So we make the decision to supplement with formula, and the baby thrives because his belly is finally full. We get to go home.

When we leave the hospital, we take all of their advice and go get all the supplies.

The best pump, nipple shields, a good nursing pillow.

I pump after every feed and have to set my baby down to play independently even though he just wants to snuggle, and I only get drops.

I power pump while he sleeps.

Only drops.

Beast compressions. Hand expression. I am either attached to a baby or a machine for the entirety of my day, it feels like. Repeat for a month.

Only drops.

I go meet with another lactation consultant. His latch is great. Nothing is wrong.

I get another opinion from a specialized doctor. His latch is great. Nothing is wrong.

But still, only drops.

So, we keep supplementing with formula, but he starts to fight that, too.

I don’t know why my milk supply remains consistently low. Something is probably wrong with me.

I get prescribed a special medication to encourage lactation. One ounce per pump session! My baby needs at least 4 each meal.

I probably didn’t try hard enough. I should have tried harder. Even the can the formula comes in tells you that you’re failing.

“Are you nursing?”

I’m not sure why I feel obligated to even answer this question. Maybe it’s because deep down, I want people to know that I’m at least trying.

“We do a combination of both,” sounds much better than, “After a lot of trauma and borderline sexual assault, we actually discovered that I am not enough for my baby like everyone told me I would be,” even though that’s how I really feel. Nobody wants to hear how I really feel, though. Not when there’s a cute new baby. Babies are happy and feeling defective isn’t. They don’t want to hear that feeding isn’t a beautiful bonding experience for us, and that instead it is one of immense trauma, anxiety and impatience for me and struggle for the baby and I don’t know how to correct it. Mind-over-matter doesn’t seem to work for us. My baby hates eating, it seems, and that’s just how it is.

So I smile and say, “We do a combination of both,” and they leave me alone.