Let’s begin with the tried and true statement of “fed is best.” Fin. Many women hop on the struggle bus fast and furiously when it comes to breastfeeding. Sadly, some women who experience infertility, go on to have major issues with a low milk supply when they eventually do become pregnant. While others may be battling with postpartum depression, or grasping at how to manage being new parents, or having a baby who may be rejecting milk. Whether you decide to breastfeed, or decide to go the formula route, can we all just have a Kumbaya moment and agree that it’s pretty freaking amazing to be in the position of having a child to begin with?
The great debate.
Chappy war-torn nips or dish pan hands, tis the question. I debated for a while whether I would re-induce lactation again. It’s a lot of work, and I knew that if I had to go the natural inducing route again, it wouldn’t be right for me. I met with my OB/GYN oncologist and asked them if I could do a more common hormone protocol to induce called the Goldfarb/Newman method, and to my surprise they said yes! So, I started 5 months out, taking your everyday-garden variety birth control pills. Irony is a YUGE jerk. Talk about the warped sense of humor it has. I have no uterus and I am on birth control. (For those a-holes in the back trying to limit access to medications and care for women’s health,—birth control has other uses too, you know.) In my case, helping dupe my body into thinking I am pregnant hormonally. Add in some Domperidone, and friends we have the beginning process of inducing lactation underway.
The number 3.
I started getting jiggy with my new pump, to whom we shall call “Sally Spectra” about 13 days ago. By day three I had drops. Glorious drops. In the picture below, it may not seem like much but damn it, I worked hard for those drops.
In order to get things moving on the milk express, I have to pump every three hours. This mimics the typical feeding schedule and sends messages to your body to produce more. I remember when I induced last time for Jellybean, it actually helped both Chris and I prepare for the the sleepless new baby schedule. I would wake up at midnight and 3 am to pump and he would bottle up the milk, wash the parts, and stumble back to bed. It was a good matinee for what was yet to come. Now that we have Jellybean, re-inducing has been how we say, interesting. If you want to scar your child for life, pump in front of them, that will certainly do the trick. She is both amused and horrified, but it does open up the door for good conversations about anatomy and that breasts are actually a food source for some babies (not just something fun to look at in a push-up bra.)
BUT WHYYYY?
I do not have restless nights of my baby kicking me. My ankles are not swollen. And sadly my stretchmarks are from burgers not babies. There’s so much that is given up in a surrogacy. On both sides. Our Wonderous Wombmate gives up her body, I give up control of my baby. Her family sacrifices, and mine does to. It’s a delicate balance of sacrifice, all for the beautiful act of bringing a child into the world for an infertile couple. For me, waking up to pump, and nips that feel like they’ve been in a medieval stretching device, is just a small cross I can bear. I am choosing to induce again because my body has failed me. However, my ability to produce milk is something small I can do, and for me that is healing.
Every drop counts.
Flapjacks, boobs, ta-tas, fun bags, the girls, whatever you want to refer them as, I can tell you after 13 days of inducing mine are on FIYAH. Dry pumping is sans fun. Although olive oil and coconut oil have provided some sweet relief, no one likes to have their nips contorted from little nip bumps to unrecognizable tootsie rolls. Sexy, am I right Chris? *silence*
But guess what folks? I have milk. This is the difference of 10 days later…
It takes a village.
The moment I mentioned that I was hopping back into the milky ring to induce lactation, people started to reach out. It was in the form of words of encouragement (trust me I need it especially when I am waking up to pump at 3 am). There’s a sisterhood that comes with being in the trenches of ”tryers.” I had a fellow IVF mama give me a hospital grade pump, others gave supplies and fennel oil supplements. Even BOTH of our gestational carrier’s, past and present, swooped in to help. Waffle’s gestational carrier (the Wonderous Wombmate) gave us some of the bags and supplies she had, and Jellybean’s Wonder Surro came over with a deep freezer filled with milk she had from a previous surro-baby she had delivered. The point is, there’s a lot of support out there if you decide to go this route. If you don’t find the support you need, PM me I got you.
Ah-milk-mazing. But wait, what does Chris have to say about all of this.
How about Chris’s boobs?
Well, I (Chris) am happy to report that my boobs are unaltered with all of this, although they are seeing a wee bit less time in bed over the last few weeks. I am our house’s official breast pump part washer. We that are members of the BPPW guild have a credo similar to the USPS, “Neither rain, nor snow, nor dark of night will keep us from begrudgingly muddling o’er to the sink with random bits of plastic to disassemble, wash, and reassemble.” We are a thankless bunch, but we do it out of love. Candace is sacrificing a ton of sleep, comfort, and mobility (since she cannot really do anything while pumping) to be able to provide not only sustenance for our little growing Waffle, but also the opportunity for such an intimate and beautiful bond to form between them. Washing the parts and making sure everything is ready for her next “wrangle with the pump” is a small way that I can contribute to her endeavor.
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