My Boobs Don't Work...

Sorry, I couldn't decide whether or not to use a funny-ish title for this post. I was hoping it might break the ice.... let me first say that I'm not writing this post for pity or to gross people out. I'm writing it because, the more I research my condition, the more people I find who have it, too. And, because I am so grateful that they were willing to write their stories for me to learn from/ find hope in, I feel like I should reciprocate for the benefits of others to come along. That said, here goes:

When I was 12, I noticed that my breasts didn't look like any others I had seen. (Probably at that point, my mom's, sister's, and probably some friends.) One of them was much smaller than the other one, and they just looked "weird." I did what any young girl would do: I showed them to my mom. Later, she told me that she was really almost "freaked out," but she calmly said something to the effect of, "Yes, honey, there's a big difference in size, let's show your sister." So, show my sister we did. When she, too, was "freaked out," we showed my dad. (Not a pleasant experience for an adolescent, I assure you. I'm guessing it wasn't that pleasant for him, either.)

My parents apparently agreed that my mom should take me to the doctor. Fortunately, at that time, my dad was still in the Air Force. I don't remember the doctor's name because, with military life, you get whoever they give you, but I remember him (or her?) saying that there definitely was a significant difference in size and he/she would refer me to a plastic surgeon.

I, again, don't remember the plastic surgeon's name, but I do remember that he was a black man probably in his 40's who made me feel really comfortable and "okay" with this. He looked at my breasts and informed my mom and I that, not only were my breasts very different in size (like the difference between an A cup and a C cup) but that I had something called tubular breast syndrome. Basically, for whatever reason, my breasts formed in more of tube shapes than the typical cone shape. There was very little fat at the base of the breasts and more fat kind of "clumped" at the end of the breast, behind an enlarged ariola. (I've since learned through my research that this is typical of tubular breasts.) The doctor recommended two things: that he go into both breasts and cut the fat bands apart to help them spread so they would be more normally shaped and to put a saline implant in my left breast so that they would be much closer in size. At that point, I didn't want to argue. I was 13 and had ugly breasts that looked weird. I wanted to be "normal" and this was as close to normal as it was going to get.

On May 8, 1995, I had the surgery. I remember be scared because the nurses said that they would have me get on the operating table myself once we got into the operating room. I was terrified that I would see a scalpel or something laying beside me. Turns out that in the preop room, they told me to count backwards from 100 and I must have been gone by 97 or 96. That was a relief. I remember being sore afterwards but, most of all, uncomfortable. I cannot say enough that I do not recommend for others to get an implant in one breast but not the other. It's very, very strange. One is heavier than the other, one flattens more than the other when you lie down, it's hard to find a bra that feels like it supports both evenly, etc. I can't say either way about getting both breasts "done," but I definitely feel that way about having only one done.

So, fast forward 10 years. I meet my incredible husband, James, who not only thinks that my having a foster daughter as a single mom was wonderful, he likes my breasts, too. (At least he says so.) He says he gets the best of both worlds. I don't say this to gross you out, but to give him the credit he deserves for always being supportive and loving. When we had been married a year, we found out, surprise! we were pregnant with Evan. (It was a surprise because Gabi had just turned 1 and Sarah was only a month old when I conceived.) It was a tough pregnancy because we had just moved, started new jobs, were having issues with our employer, and James was still in school. To top it off, I developed severe preeclampsia at 30 1/2 weeks and had to be delivered by c-section at 31 1/2 weeks. Now, I had seen the hospital lactation consultant around 4 months because I was so desperate to breastfeed, and knew I might have problems. She basically told me that she couldn't help me; we would just have to wait and see what happened. So after having my baby surgically removed way too early in the pregnancy, I saw him, literally, for a few seconds, then didn't see him again until over 24 hours later. At that point, he was hooked up to a ventilator and I couldn't even hold him. I was in so much pain and so drugged from pain medicines and, I would find out later, mostly my blood pressure meds, that I could barely keep my head up or reach my hand in the feel his little body. It was a full 2 weeks until I finally figured out that the blood pressure medicine was making me feel so tired and whoozy- I would visit my Evan and sit by his isolet (sp?) and think about what an awful mom I was because all I wanted to do was crawl in bed and sleep. I felt much better after they lowered my meds; even the NICU nurses noticed a huge difference. All this time, I pumped. I pumped ever 3 hours, through night and day. And all I got was between 5 and 10 mL (yes, mL) in breastmilk. The nurses encouraged me, saying that it was good for him, and they put it in his feeding tube. By the time Evan was 4 or 5 weeks old and they encouraged me to try to breastfeed, I was so discouraged from seeing these other moms carry out bottle full of breastmilk from the breastfeeding room that I tried once and just quit. I had failed in the one thing I had dreamt about since I was a little girl. Since I would play with my babies and put them up my shirt to pretend I was nursing. Since I would see moms at church and in public nursing and barely be able to take my eyes away because it was so sweet and precious. James had been so supportive; we had even bought a supplemental nursing system with money we really couldn't afford to spend. It had a bottle that hung around my neck with tubes I could tape to my breasts so that Evan could nurse on me while getting formula. Unfortunately, the lactation consultant was not supportive of this at all, so I was embarrassed to pull it out in the NICU. By the time Evan came home at 6 weeks, I just tried not to think about nursing and focused on him gaining weight and being healthy.

Well, here I am again. For months, since Evan was born and all the way through this pregnancy, I have succumbed to tears at times because I so desire to breastfeed. I've been angry at God. Angry that he would allow someone else's breasts to work and they wouldn't even care to breastfeed. Having friends that didn't breastfeed on purpose because they didn't want to get engorged. And no, I promise, I'm not being judgemental about their decision. I'm just frustrated that they CAN and DON'T and I want to SO BADLY and CAN'T. I have prayed. I have tried herbs. I have prayed more. I have tried Reglan, a prescription that's supposed to help increase milk supply. And I have prayed more. I have cried to myself in the shower and cried in James' arms. And yes, I'm crying now. I don't think I will ever get over this. Ever. I am determined to try again with Matthew. I am determined that maybe it will be different if we can make it further along in the pregnancy and he be, dare I say it, full term. I know what you're thinking: be thankful that you baby is healthy. Be thankful that we have infant formula that's nearly as good as breastmilk. I am, I promise. But being thankful for those things doesn't take away the heartache when I see other mommies holding their babies close, comforting and nourishing them in a miraculous way that our God created. No, I will never get over this. So, as I said, I write this for the benefit of others who may feel alone. And I guess I also write this asking for prayer. Maybe, just maybe, if you pray for me, and beg with me, our God will see fit to give me this gift. I know I'm not any more deserving than anybody else, but I can't help but ask. And now I'm going to wipe away my tears because my Gabi is standing by me, holding onto my arm, saying, "Mommy, I don't want you to be sad." And I'm just going to hope, one more time.