Written by Megan Ernst

When I was pregnant with my son I became a research machine.  If you asked me the best way to bathe a baby, get through a birth contraction, or soothe a newborn baby to sleep, chances are I had read an article about it or watched a YouTube video.  I read breastfeeding books, bought supplies, and attended a 12-week birth class with my husband to prepare for a natural birth.  I felt like I had all the bases covered and then some.

My son was born after a 27-hour long labor that was fairly uneventful, apart from maybe arriving at the hospital at 10 cm dilated.  (I don’t recommend that, by the way).  However, even though I had achieved my goal of a drug-free birth, entering the postpartum recovery period was something I realized I was completely unprepared for.

When they placed my son on me for the first time, I was completely and utterly exhausted.  I could not actually lift my arms to hold him and try to get him to latch on for the first time.  I settled for just laying him on my chest right after delivery.  My nurses and doctors were bustling around, gathering bright lights, rounding up supplies, and paging additional doctors to repair my significant vaginal tear.  The nurse instructed me to just “look down and focus on my baby,” so I complied.  I gazed down at my son’s perfect face, and realized that I felt…nothing.  No magical bonding moment, no fireworks of love and attachment, no angels singing, or trumpets sounding.  It was not what I had expected, to say the least.

The feeling persisted as I waded through the first few sleepless nights.  It became readily apparent that our son had no intention of sleeping more than 15 minutes at a time, and the delivery nurse even commented that he seemed incredibly “alert.” (Haha, first red flag?)

However, the bright spot of our time in the hospital was that I was fortunate enough to have a wonderful lactation consultant who helped me try to get my son latched and feeding for the first time. (Shout out to Wendy wherever you are!) It was apparent to her that he was having trouble, so she set us up with a Supplemental Nursing System (or SNS), that consisted of a small tube catheter that I would place into my son’s mouth while he was latched.  The other end of the tube was attached to a small syringe that would allow me or my husband to slowly push colostrum down the tube to my son’s mouth.  This was all in the hopes that my son would learn to latch better and start to understand the connection between nursing and receiving milk.

The next few days were a blur of pumping, feeding with the SNS system, and then pumping again.  At this point, breastfeeding was a team sport, with my husband often holding the tubing, or syringe, or washing endless amounts of pump parts.  However, while my son was starting to feed better without the SNS system, I was still having a lot of trouble getting him to latch properly without causing me a tremendous amount of toe-curling pain.  At this point, I was ready to quit.  I dreaded each feeding session and was so tired of feeling like breastfeeding wasn’t working out.  During this time, my husband switched into birth coach mode and gave me countless pep talks, building up my resolve to make things work.  First off, I reached out to my local La Leche League and the leader of the group said that she would stop by my home in person to see if she could help at all.

A few days later she arrived at my front door and was the textbook stereotype of a hippie mama.  From her “I make milk, what is your superpower?” shirt, to her dreadlocks, to her birkenstocks, I thought that if this lady couldn’t help me…no one could.

She followed me back to my son’s bedroom and sat with me while I tried to nurse him.  Overall, she didn’t actually say much, just rocked my son and then watched me latch him on a few times.  When she left I felt like I was doing a little better, maybe even just because I had had another woman sit with me and talk about nursing.  However, when I was still struggling a few days later I made an appointment to see another Lactation Consultant.  The only downside?  The first appointment they had was in almost three weeks.

Over the next few weeks I struggled on the best I could.  I read countless more articles, rubbed on an endless amount of nipple cream, called a 24 hour support line for breastfeeding mothers, called my birth class teacher, had a more experienced friend watch me latch, and got through each feeding by watching “Call the Midwife” episodes on my phone.  Many, many times I felt like giving up.  But whether through determination, or most likely just numb exhaustion, I kept at it.  Then, very slowly, things started to get better.

By the time the Lactation Consultant appointment came around things were going much better with breastfeeding and it wasn’t so painful.  The nurse weighed my son and said that he was no longer losing weight.  I finally breathed a small sigh of relief.

However, several months later, while the breastfeeding was starting to improve, I was still struggling with a lack of attachment with my son, instense anger, and heavy feelings of sadness.  At this point I had also been diagnosed with Diastasis Recti (separation of abdominal walls due to pregnancy) and was still feeling very physically weak.  I chalked everything else up to the lack of sleep.  Afterall, my son was still continuing to display his amazing ability to remain awake for hours and hours on end.

However, one day I realized that something really was wrong. I was at home, and I placed my son on his changing table to change his diaper.  Suddenly I felt like I didn’t even know what to do first.  I stood there, just staring at the stack of diapers and wipes, weeping.  My arms hung at my sides like lead weights.  My son stared calmly up at me, and I felt like the worst mom in the entire world.  “I’m sorry,” I said, as tears streamed down my cheeks.

After that day, I started to say the words postpartum depression.  Honestly just putting a name on what was happening to me began to help a small amount.  I talked it through with my husband and we decided to make some changes and see if they improved how I was feeling.  The first change was switching to bedsharing.  My sweet husband moved to the couch to make it even safer for my son to sleep next to me and nurse.

For the first time in the six months since my son had been born I began to get more sleep.  I let go of the tormenting hell of sleep training and just snuggled up against my son in the dark.  I listened to his small, steady breaths.  I let him nurse himself to sleep and I just rested.  I finally rested.

Over the next months there were many more ups and downs, but overall I started to feel like pieces of myself began to return, and the fog began to lift.  The magical feelings of love for my son started to creep in at the corners.

I by no means think that my story is the solution for all moms with Postpartum Depression, and for many, medication and counseling are what is needed to start recovery.  There is no shame in that whatsoever.  There is certainly no one sized fits all solution to putting the darkness behind us.  For some, it is exactly the opposite, giving up breastfeeding, that allows them to start healing.  For me however, it was the nursing that saved me in the end.  It was feeling like even if everything else was falling apart, my son was at least fed.  And it was my body that fed him.

He is now 2.5 years old and we are “still” nursing.  I never planned to do extended breastfeeding, but it has been the best fit for us, and I’m proud to still be feeding my son physically and emotionally.  I am still working on completely recovering from the PPD and the Diastasis Recti, but overall I feel so much stronger both mentally and physically than I was before I had my son.  The struggles of working through both issues have made me so much more confident as to what I can make it through.

Looking back on my breastfeeding journey thus far I feel like I have learned so much.  First, that breastfeeding sometimes takes a village.  Sometimes it takes calls to a friend, your mom, a lactation consultant, a thousand Internet searches, a sympathetic husband, and a visit from a hippie…but it can work.  Secondly, in my case, breastfeeding is what started to heal me and finally connect me with my son.  And for that, I wouldn’t exchange the whole messy experience for the world.

If you would like the opportunity to share your breastfeeding journey and and a chance to be featured on our blog, submit your essay to ocean@latchedmama.com