When I was expecting my son, I was determined to breastfeed him. Growing up in a family with a strong tradition of bottle-feeding left me feeling anxious about the prospect of nourishing my little one. I dove into books, attended classes, and grilled my friends who had breastfed for every ounce of knowledge they could share (pun intended). After an emergency C-section, I followed the lactation consultant’s advice, nervously adjusted my gown, and hoped for the best.
In those early weeks, breastfeeding was anything but effortless for my son and me. In fact, it felt like I had given birth to a baby whose singular mission was to drain every drop of milk from my breasts—milk that simply wasn’t there. My body seemed to be on strike, and there was a lot of crying involved. My son wailed, and so did I. No matter how hard I tried, we were the perfect duo of a screaming baby and a tearful mother, making every outing a memorable one, let me tell you.
Before becoming a full-time mom, I was a trained ICU nurse and married to a doctor. Between the two of us, we knew a thing or two about medicine, but all that knowledge vanished when sleep deprivation hit me hard. I failed to recognize the early signs of mastitis because I was just too exhausted.
Three weeks into this exhausting journey, I began to realize something was seriously wrong. The pain I felt while breastfeeding had always been intense, but it escalated to a new level. I noticed my breast was turning red, almost like it was blushing from embarrassment. Yet, I pressed on, determined to feed my baby. It wasn’t until a follow-up visit to my doctor that I learned just how grave my condition was. A soaring 104-degree fever and sepsis from an advanced case of untreated mastitis had taken hold.
After a whirlwind of tests and phone calls, I was quickly admitted to the hospital for IV antibiotics. I was so unwell that my doctor drove me the short distance there himself. Talk about awkward: “Nice car, Doc… Can we just gloss over the fact that moments ago you were examining my breasts, and I’m not even getting dinner out of it?”
Being married to a doctor comes with its perks—like knowing a lot of medical professionals. This can be delightful at social gatherings, but when you’re in a hospital with a cherry-red breast and a severe infection, it becomes a different story. With my husband being the chief resident in the very medical service I was admitted to, things got a little uncomfortable.
Here I was, three weeks postpartum, suddenly surrounded by familiar faces from the hospital holiday party. The stares from medical students felt more invasive than awkward. When I was asked to disrobe for a “full comparison” with an audience gathered at the foot of my bed, I wanted to disappear. I kept my gaze glued to the ceiling, silently cursing my husband for getting me into this predicament.
My dignity took a nosedive as I was poked, prodded, and examined by nearly everyone from my husband’s service. During a particularly painful procedure, a resident even managed to get a needle stuck in my breast. He had to leave me on the table to find help while I nervously chatted with a nurse about the weather. When a friend and attending physician strolled in, exclaiming, “Well, this is the weirdest way I’ve had a friend come to visit me at work!” my pride was officially in tatters.
After six grueling weeks of home antibiotics and additional months of oral medication, I eventually recovered from what I now refer to as “the mastitis from hell.” My breast healed, but my pride took longer to mend. I still cringe at the thought of all those eyes on me, but at least I now have a wild story for any gathering.
For more information on pregnancy and home insemination, check out this excellent resource from the NHS. And if you’re interested in fertility journeys, this site has some great insights.