Letter to My Breastfed Baby:
You were born in a hospital only a few miles from our home where we had planned to give birth. Our midwife held you to me and you nursed right there in the corridor. Paper gown, IVs, groggy, I couldn’t even hold you myself yet. You were so strong, you made me strong.
Two nights turned into five. You nursed through my fevers, sweat and then cool water trickling down to your cheeks from the compress my favorite nurse swung around like a party favor before wrapping around my neck. My milk was slow to come in, but you gladly slept tucked into my gown, always close. Our midwife sat on the edge of the bed and fed me cool, sweet tea that made my milk flow and my breasts throb. The fever broke, came back, then broke for good. Your suck grew stronger and you made me stronger.
Hours
before going home, you refused to nurse. The hospital had insisted we
feed you formula when you didn’t meet their demand for wet diapers,
and now you protested this unfair confusion. I didn’t blame you. We
didn’t want to be in this hospital room with the long dingy window
facing a brick wall, the moldy shower curtain, the armbands and alarms
and protocols. They wore me down until I shouted and cursed, “Give
him the bottle then!” And now you turned your head and refused my
milk. Oh you are so strong my little boy, but I will be strong too!
Back at home, away from the formula and finger feeding tubes and syringes, we settle in and you nurse again. We spend whole days in the same spot, skin to warm skin. We marvel at how you thrive from just my milk and at how confident we feel in our ability to nourish and care for you. At night, we pull you close in the big bed and you nurse with one arm stretched out behind you to daddy. We sleep and sigh, the three of us touching hands and feet and bellies. Together, we are a family and we are strong.
You are only seven months old when I finally see a doctor about the swollen milk duct I can always feel when you’re nursing on the right side. When we find out, the words come too fast: cancer, surgery, chemotherapy. All we can think about is our happy breastfeeding baby we’re not allowed to even wean gradually. When you turn your head towards me, I have to hand you to daddy and now my job is to measure and mix bottles. How will I comfort you and sleep with you and care for you? I want to pull you to me and nurse you, let the hormones release and wash away my fear. I want to feel your little hand flicker back and forth across my belly as you drift to sleep. Instead, you sit in your high chair while I hold cold cabbage leaves to my breast so daddy can wind bandages tight across my chest. I want to laugh at the cabbage leaves and at your face as you throw the cup of formula at us, but I break down. I am afraid I am not that strong.
One day at a time, my milk dries up and I figure out how to hold you on my hip and then on my back away from my sore breasts. You’re delighted and you pull my hair with your little grasping fists. Our wonderful midwife is far away in another state expecting her own baby soon, but her voice over the phone is as clear and direct as the day you were born. I do what she says and clap for you when you slurp down the goat’s milk we give you and I kiss your face and hands when daddy feeds you.
Late one night when daddy needs a break and you cry and fuss and refuse to sleep, I find the courage to take you back into my arms. I cradle you in our bed and as you look up, I instinctively know what to do. You take the bottle and suck steadily while I whisper to you, my mouth close to your forehead like a long kiss. Your hand swishes against me, so familiar, so secure. Our bond is strong and we will be strong. You drift to sleep as I hold you, milk dripping from your sweet, sleeping mouth.
.: This letter was written by Kelly to her son Ari :.
Your letter is beautiful and poignant and sad. My first daughter was 9 weeks old when my husband was diagnosed with cancer. It was a familiar evil in my life, as I had lost my Father and my Mother's best friend to this disease. All I knew of cancer was death and I was stunned, shaken, scared. So many words I could use to describe, but at the time there was none that truly fit the bill. He battled this disease and refused to ever admit defeat. He did all that his doctors asked and went beyond if there was even a remote glimmer of hope to be had. He refused to label himself as sick and lived each moment to his end. We got pregnant with a second child half-way through his interferon treatment and we rejoiced, refusing to think of life as anything other than life and a gift. She was his beautiful gift to me, but unfortunately my two daughters and I lost this precious soul when my babies were 2 1/2 years and 10 months old. This was eight months after they suggested he might be in remission.
While many a day I have struggled with my lot in life and this huge loss for myself and my girls, I have been surprised to find much beauty and love. I too have had many reiki and therapeutic touch treatments and they have helped to heal some of the sorrow that seemed to constantly leak from me. So many times people have called me strong and I railed against it. I did not want to be strong. I was strong because I had to be. I did not want to be strong, but I was. Kind and loving individuals have entered my life and shown me the beauty and energy that exists all around us. Yoga has given me loving kindness and I am grateful. Love is precious. My husband loved me and loves me still. While not here in body, he is with me still and will be as long as I need him. He will be forever. I still feel pain at the word cancer, but am now at a point where I find it hard to call it insidious. It has brought me much hurt, but it has given me many gifts. The love that has graced my world is overwhelming. I wish you love, strength and compassion in your journey. While some call it a fight, as I have at times, it comes to me now that it is moreso a challenge, a gift, a new path to discover yourself. I wish you well and much insight on your path.
Posted by: Katherine | 12/05/2009 at 09:29 PM
Katherine,
Thank you so much for sharing your story. I felt a well of emotions for you and your girls when I was reading. I'm glad to know that you feel your husband with you.
It's so strange--my husband and I have said many times that this experience is a gift because we just truly see how much we love our life. You know that it's not that simple, though. You are far more articulate and insightful than I am--I am striving to learn more about myself every day.
Posted by: Kelly | 12/07/2009 at 02:01 PM
(tears)...there are no words...
Posted by: Jenna :) | 12/07/2009 at 09:23 PM
Kelly is my creative, nurturing, amazing sister...and she just told me about Garden Mama's blog and the Wellness Tree project so I had to check it out tonight! I am the analytical sister who wishes she were more creative :)
It is so touching to read about the project and also the kind comments from everyone. I had not read the letter she wrote to Ari before, myself, so I sit here crying - she always knows the right thing to say to touch your heart and I am so proud at how strong she is.
Posted by: Erin | 12/08/2009 at 10:04 PM
beauty and grace.
may good health surround in the coming year.
thank you for sharing your strength.
Posted by: Sarah | 12/31/2009 at 07:59 PM
What an absolutely beautiful letter. You are in my prayers.
Posted by: Ginny | 04/27/2010 at 09:48 PM
Your letter is beautiful. It made me cry. I was also at work. Hope you are doing better. You have inspired me to write a letter to my nursing son. We have been nursing for 7 months.
Posted by: Yesenia Vasquez | 12/30/2010 at 04:51 PM