Except, of course, when it's not. And it's those times-- when it's not-- that mothers like me often end up jeopardizing our health or our children's health because we cling to the idea of breastfeeding above the actual benefits that it provides to us and our children.
I breastfed my oldest child for two and a half years, and I was determined to do the same with my son, born six years later. There were many things that I planned on doing differently the second time around, but breastfeeding was something that I knew I was going to do even if I had to walk through Hell and back to make it happen.
So, when my doctor told me clearly almost immediately after my son's birth that I needed to wean him so I could take central nervous system depressants to control my panic disorder, I refused. I was going to breastfeed my baby, and that was that. I wasn't selfish. I would gladly deal with ten panic attacks a day if it meant giving my son the healthiest start.
Then I found out what it's like to have ten panic attacks a day. I went to my doctor when my son was two months old and asked her for the third time since his birth to adjust my medication without giving me breastfeeding-imcompatible drugs. I was shaking like a leaf and crying for no reason. I hadn't slept sufficiently days, plagued by insomnia and nightmares.
My doctor shook her head and said, "I wouldn't tell you to wean if I didn't think you needed to wean. This is one of the worst cases of postpartum anxiety I've ever seen. You need to wean."
I didn't listen. I tried other treatments-- counseling, exercise, dietary adjustments, support groups, even moderate alcohol. The panic attacks didn't stop. They began to affect my body profoundly. I was tense, and my heart was racing in the 130s even at rest. I couldn't catch my breath and felt dizzy and sick. I developed severe stomach problems and lost ten percent of my body weight in two weeks.
When I stumbled into the doctor's office again, I couldn't look her in the eye. She told me clearly, choosing her words carefully, "Juniper, you are going to end up in the hospital or worse if you don't wean your son and take the meds I'm prescribing you."
I burst into tears. In retrospect, it's hard to see why. Formula isn't the end of the world. But I had been certain that I would breastfeed. It was the one thing as a "crunchy," health-conscious, loving, attachment-parenting mom that I absolutely felt like I had to do. I didn't fill the prescription. I kept breastfeeding. And I got sicker.
Eventually, my anxiety reached terminal velocity. My memories are as blurred and surreal as the world around me seemed. I was fainting-- my heart couldn't keep up with the palpitations. I would lose sensation in my legs and arms and be unable to walk or move. I nearly dropped my son several times because of weakness. I couldn't eat for seven entire days because of involuntary gagging and vomiting. I was pale and shook violently.
After seeing me faint, a friend finally insisted on taking me to the emergency room, where my symptoms troubled them so much that they bypassed triage and immediately planted an oxygen mask over my face. I later found out that my heart rate was in the 160s and my respiration rate was in the 40s. I was hypoxic; my lips and fingertips were blue. I was dehydrated and had low blood sugar from days of not eating. What could cause such terrible symptoms?
Anxiety. Very, very, very severe anxiety.
It's what happens when a doctor tells you that you need central nervous system depressants and you don't listen.
I ended up needing to be hospitalized and separated from the children I loved for ten days while I regained my strength and started taking the strong anxiolytic medications that my doctor had been recommending all along. It was nightmarish and devastating, and could have all been prevented if I had been willing to accept that it's okay to be "selfish" and to end breastfeeding in order to take medications that are necessary for the preservation of life and health.
My son is now, much to my disappointment, formula-fed, and while I certainly wish I could have breastfed him longer than the four and a half months that I made it, I'm gradually learning to accept that the only thing I did wrong was to deny my medical needs because of my desire to be a supermom.
I'm beginning to see that breastfeeding, while amazing, isn't the only way to bond with or nurture a child. It was selfish of me to pursue breastfeeding even when it was compromising my ability to care for myself and my children-- it was self-righteous martyrdom that hurt us both and helped neither of us.
My only regret in formula-feeding is that I didn't do it sooner.
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