Breastmilk on the walls and a sad goodbye - Pt. 1
Over the last few months I've been more and more conscious of my body physically changing. Chemo, steroids and ovarian suppression are HARD on the body. I've been learning to deal with the ups and downs and the constant changes, but I'm not comfortable with where I am currently. I'm the most out of shape I've ever been and at my highest non-pregnancy weight of my life. People say that it's easier to see change in someone else when you don't see them every single day, but it can also be "easy" to see those changes when they are happening on, or to, your body. Also, it can be terrifying.
In the very beginning of 2014, I found out I was pregnant. One week after NYE and it was the best and scariest surprise of our lives. We prepped and planned and cried. We were scared and excited and celebrated, celebrated, celebrated. When Eveleigh was born, she was perfect (somehow she remains perfect to this day), and I was healing "well" despite the feeling that my body had been ravaged. I could not imagine any experience closer to out of body than the moment of my last push of childbirth. It was the most profoundly beautiful and overwhelming moment of my entire life and I felt it was the biggest thing I'd ever experienced, because it was. All I could think to say was "Oh my god, you're here."
Because, finally, she was.
Evie turned 3 last month and the months and years since her birth have been challenging, in a way I didn't know to expect. My moods were up and down, my milk production was consistently low and Evie and I tried, to the point of tears (from both of us), to learn the best way to breastfeed. We never figured that one out.
The 10 months that followed Evie's birth were the most wonderful and horrible of months. I was so beyond in love with her, but I became attached to the breast pump and more and more detached from me. I pumped every 2 hours, day and night, for 30 minutes each time. I created such a disjointed existence that I'd sleep for maybe an hour and a half at a time and leave anywhere at any time to go home and pump. I lived a lot of life sitting in bed, half the time in the dark, staring at my phone in an attempt to stay awake. If I fell asleep while pumping, I risked the milk spilling and/or the milk production slowing.
It was a really, really challenging time, but I just kept focusing on the future. I dreaded the days during which the only future I could really see would be the minutes I knew I needed to be hearing the whoosh of the Medela Symphony. It was incredibly overwhelming, stressful and exhausting. It was a kind of hell I didn't really know existed, until it consumed my existence.
In the midst of our move earlier this year, right after my diagnosis, the movers had come and everything had been moved out of our place and I said goodbye to a part of my body AND our duplex in a way I didn't expect or realize would be as emotional as it was -- by washing old breast milk off the wall behind my old nightstand. I didn't realize there were remnants of an old breast milk spill behind the furniture, but I sat in the empty room, washing the wall and sobbing. My bilateral mastectomies were scheduled for about a week later. It was a tight move and we were exhausted, but we knew the move was the right thing to do. I'd already come to terms with my surgery and with losing the "ladies", but there I was - moving my family out of a house we all loved and grasping at straws for what to say to a 2 1/2 year old who is asking what's happening to her home, not knowing enough to ask what's happening to her mommy.
To be continued...
XO.
In the very beginning of 2014, I found out I was pregnant. One week after NYE and it was the best and scariest surprise of our lives. We prepped and planned and cried. We were scared and excited and celebrated, celebrated, celebrated. When Eveleigh was born, she was perfect (somehow she remains perfect to this day), and I was healing "well" despite the feeling that my body had been ravaged. I could not imagine any experience closer to out of body than the moment of my last push of childbirth. It was the most profoundly beautiful and overwhelming moment of my entire life and I felt it was the biggest thing I'd ever experienced, because it was. All I could think to say was "Oh my god, you're here."
Because, finally, she was.
Evie turned 3 last month and the months and years since her birth have been challenging, in a way I didn't know to expect. My moods were up and down, my milk production was consistently low and Evie and I tried, to the point of tears (from both of us), to learn the best way to breastfeed. We never figured that one out.
The 10 months that followed Evie's birth were the most wonderful and horrible of months. I was so beyond in love with her, but I became attached to the breast pump and more and more detached from me. I pumped every 2 hours, day and night, for 30 minutes each time. I created such a disjointed existence that I'd sleep for maybe an hour and a half at a time and leave anywhere at any time to go home and pump. I lived a lot of life sitting in bed, half the time in the dark, staring at my phone in an attempt to stay awake. If I fell asleep while pumping, I risked the milk spilling and/or the milk production slowing.
It was a really, really challenging time, but I just kept focusing on the future. I dreaded the days during which the only future I could really see would be the minutes I knew I needed to be hearing the whoosh of the Medela Symphony. It was incredibly overwhelming, stressful and exhausting. It was a kind of hell I didn't really know existed, until it consumed my existence.
In the midst of our move earlier this year, right after my diagnosis, the movers had come and everything had been moved out of our place and I said goodbye to a part of my body AND our duplex in a way I didn't expect or realize would be as emotional as it was -- by washing old breast milk off the wall behind my old nightstand. I didn't realize there were remnants of an old breast milk spill behind the furniture, but I sat in the empty room, washing the wall and sobbing. My bilateral mastectomies were scheduled for about a week later. It was a tight move and we were exhausted, but we knew the move was the right thing to do. I'd already come to terms with my surgery and with losing the "ladies", but there I was - moving my family out of a house we all loved and grasping at straws for what to say to a 2 1/2 year old who is asking what's happening to her home, not knowing enough to ask what's happening to her mommy.
To be continued...
XO.
I hadn't seen you on FB for awhile so thought I'd check your blog in an effort to get an update on you. And here you are with this beautifully written letter from your heart. Thank you. I can somewhat relate to the changes in your body as well as in your mind, emotions and life in general. It is scary and quite unsettling. It's a feeling of being out of control of the few things we all think we have some control over - our body, mind and emotions.
ReplyDeleteYour description of birthing Evie was so beautiful. It is truly an experience like no other and I'm grateful you got to experience it. The breastfeeding story on the other hand pains me to read. I've heard this story too many times before and it is truly a frustrating nightmare and one you never could have prepared yourself for. I am so sorry you both had to endure that. Having moved 30 times now I was particularly touched by your efforts to clean your place as you prepared to move out. Another unexpected blow to the emotions finding the breast milk remnants. With a move, a baby, exhaustion and a major traumatic surgery all at once I must say I am impressed at your appearance of sanity! That's so much to process. Evie being somewhat distraught over the move in the midst of all else you were dealing with had to be difficult. And yes, you are Mommy and to her none of these things existed. You remain the same to her and that says a lot about your stamina and maybe even subconscious attempts to keep her life as normal as possible. .
I can recall wanting so badly for time to pass quickly. If for no other reason than to no longer linger there in that bad and uncertain scary place. And of course move me closer to the day I would no longer feel like I did at that time. You have demonstrated you are strong and I promise you that you are even stronger then you think. You can do this. All of it. Whatever is required you will do. And some day little will be required and you can catch your breath again. People have said to me "You are so strong. I don't know how you do it." I always smiled and thought, "you mean there were options?" Much love to you and your family.