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Mastitis: A Tale of Woe and Boobs
When I was pregnant with my son, I was determined to breastfeed. Coming from a family where bottle-feeding reigned supreme, I felt a bit anxious about this new challenge of nourishing a tiny human. I devoured books, enrolled in classes, and peppered my breastfeeding friends with questions (pun intended). After an emergency C-section, I followed the lactation consultant’s advice, nervously lifted my gown, and crossed my fingers.
In those early weeks, breastfeeding was anything but smooth sailing for my son and me. In fact, it was more like a shipwreck. I had managed to birth a baby whose life goal was to consume every drop of breast milk, yet here I was, a mom whose supply was about as plentiful as a drought. My breasts were refusing to cooperate, leading to a lot of crying—him and me both. We were a delightful duo, I assure you, the life of every party.
Before becoming a full-time mom with a baby glued to me, I was an ICU nurse married to a doctor. You’d think we’d have it all figured out, but when sleep deprivation hits, even the most seasoned medical professionals can lose their edge. I missed the early signs of mastitis because, honestly, I was just too darn tired.
The real trouble began three weeks in. With latching being painful from the start, I didn’t immediately notice the increased discomfort. However, I did see that my breast had taken on a rather alarming shade of crimson, as if it were embarrassed by its exposure. I persevered in feeding my little milk monster until a follow-up visit revealed the grim reality: I was running a 104-degree fever and had developed a severe case of untreated mastitis.
After a whirlwind of tests and frantic phone calls, I was promptly whisked away to the hospital for IV antibiotics. In a rather awkward twist, my doctor drove me there himself. Talk about a strange car ride: “Nice wheels, Doc… Let’s just ignore that you were just handling my breasts, and I’m not even getting dinner out of this deal.”
Here’s something you learn when you marry a doctor: they have a vast network of medical professionals. This can be great at hospital parties but not so much when you’re admitted to the very hospital where your husband works, suffering from a toxic blood infection and, oh yes, your husband just happens to be the chief resident. Things got weird, fast.
Three weeks postpartum, I found myself in a hospital room surrounded by familiar faces from the hospital holiday party. The medical students peering at me made me feel more exposed than a fish out of water. When I was asked to fully disrobe for a “comparing” session, I could have crawled under the bed in embarrassment. I kept my gaze fixed on the ceiling and mentally cursed my husband for getting me into this predicament.
Any remaining shred of dignity vanished as I was examined, prodded, and subjected to various medical procedures by nearly everyone I knew on my husband’s service. During one particularly painful needle extraction, a resident managed to get the needle stuck in my breast. Yes, stuck. He had to leave me on the table to find help while a nurse and I nervously chatted about the weather. When a friend and attending physician walked in, chirping, “This is the strangest way I’ve had a friend visit me at work!” my pride was officially in critical condition.
After six grueling weeks of home antibiotics and several more months on oral meds, I finally recovered from my bout with mastitis. My breast may have healed, but my pride? That’s still a bit bruised, and I cringe every time I think of that audience. But hey, it makes for a wild cocktail party story…
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Summary:
The author recounts her challenging experience with breastfeeding and a severe case of mastitis after her son’s birth. Despite her medical background, she found herself overwhelmed and ultimately hospitalized due to the infection. With humor and honesty, she shares the awkward realities of her situation, emphasizing the importance of support and resources during the postpartum journey.