Welcome to?Fearless Formula Feeder Fridays,?a weekly guest post feature that strives to build a supportive community of parents united through our common experiences, open minds, and frustration with the breast-vs-bottle bullying and bullcrap.
Please note, these stories are for the most part unedited, and do not necessarily represent the FFF?s opinions. They also are not political statements ? this is an arena for people to share their thoughts and feelings, and I hope we can all give them the space to do so.
Shannon?s story describes ? in exquisite, painful detail ? how different pregnancy can be when dealing with a prenatal mood disorder. With all the talk of mental health lately, I find it discouraging that we still pay so little attention to maternal emotional well-being. I think when we become pregnant ? and again once the baby is born ? we become invisible. We are no longer women, with our own needs, desires, and emotional struggles; we become incubators, and then feeding receptacles. It?s okay to subjugate ourselves, because it?s self-serving to do anything but. We are expected to be happy, glowing, and head-over-heels in love with our offspring, ready to do whatever it takes to give them the best.?
But there is so much more to it than that. There is so much more to us.
Thank you, Shannon, for giving us a glimpse into how too many women suffer during their pregnancies, and beyond. And most of all, thank you for doing what you needed to do in order to take care of yourself as well as your child.?
Most women are fully aware of post-natal depression and are highly oblivious of prenatal depression and anxiety. You see, pregnancy is supposed to be this happy thing. You glow. You are growing a baby. You are becoming a mom. Total strangers are quite curious creatures and want to know about mom-to-be. Your family members spread the news among their friends. Prior to the first appointment, our entire group of friends knew. Who then, in-turn, spread the ?wonderful? news to their friends. All of whom made me the center of attention, which was what I was trying to avoid. I wanted life to continue as normal. I am not the center-of-attention type of person nor am I a type-A personality. Unfortunately, my pregnancy was beyond normal filled with severe prenatal depression, anxiety attacks and suicidal thoughts. It was horror from the beginning.
I had major tendon reconstruction in my left foot a mere two weeks prior to conception. You would think two doctors in the same network with computerized access to my files would understand the predicament. How could I assume that? They were not on the same page; not even in the same book. My OB wanted a minimum of 35lbs. My podiatrist, on the other hand, wanted a maximum of 20lbs. That particular foot was braced and wrapped for my first three OB appointments. Both the OB and her nurse noticed and commented, but could have cared less. Quite possibly, could that have been my first red flag about how bitchy and cold this OB was? Maybe. However, I continued to go to her appointments.
Although I was discharged from the Air Force Reserves a few months prior, I still had the military mentality of being a gym-rat and keeping my weight in-check. Yes, in this day in age, that is great. Work out, be healthy; Eat right, be healthy. It was in-grained into my lifestyle. That almost perfect, athletic body was gone. I could not see past the ever-growing alien. Nor did I develop an understanding that I was supposed to gain weight. The weight gain was only the start of my life-altering struggles.
When I wasn?t highly denying the pregnancy to family friends, I raised my voice in terror. I wanted to disappear from this Earth; never wanting to leave the house, not talking about the pregnancy. To blatantly put it, I was becoming depressed caught up in the anxiety attacks, trapped in my own place, and terrorized by cameras. The flags where there. Yet, my OB, who I trusted with both of our lives to, ignored them. She asked the same questions every appointment. Never once asking about my mental health. I brought up the depression; she ran out of the examination room. She mentioned that my depression was not ?deep enough? for a mental health treatments. From that point on, I was repeatedly bitched at for lack of weight gain, for losing 10lbs prior to the 3rd month, hospitalized for dehydration and extreme nausea and most importantly, for continuing to use the gym. For me, the gym made me happy by equalizing the hormones in my brain. I felt normal for 2-3 hours. I swam competitively, ran on the treadmill and tossed 20lb weights like they were candy. Pregnancy is not a handicap, why must this OB believe I couldn?t do anything except walk? I cried prior to every appointment in fear of what new development to be horrified about. I cried after each appointment because I wasn?t gaining weight like I was supposed to. I checked into every appointment, but wanted to turn around and leave. My husband was actually supportive, listened to the complaints, witness the crying and was clueless on how to speak pregnancy without me overreacting in horror and terror. My pregnancy was far from normal and she wanted nothing to do with it. I could have followed a family request to switch, but I remained under her care.
I couldn?t get time off for the anatomy sonogram. I was on a days shift rotation at that time and worked 12 hour days. Needless to say, my work schedule didn?t sit well with either the scheduling nurse or the OB. They wanted the sonogram report yesterday. I didn?t want it done. Most importantly, I didn?t want to find out the sex. I was wishing this alien would leave my body. The earlier, the better. I was wishing for the sonographer to not find a heartbeat.? After the sonographer blurted out the sex of our child, I cried. I found out that we were having a baby girl. By this time, both families were extremely anxious for baby showers. Against our families wishes, I refused the baby showers. With my mental angst against the world, baby showers were out. I wasn?t in the mental capacity to act happy nor was I thrilled to see a camera. I was horribly petrified of cameras and mirrors. I didn?t want to see myself. There was no way that I could have gotten through a baby shower without crying or disappointing party go-ers. I was lectured about the so-called importance of baby showers and was called selfish for not putting my unborn child first.
I?m extremely anti-pink, so pink was immediately out. To blatantly put it, my husband owns more pink than I do. A baby girl is beautiful. She doesn?t need to wear tutus and pink to prove that. The thoughts of pink from my family members echoed sin and sorrow in my mind. My mother-in-law threw herself a grandmother shower and basically forced me into Babies R Us, Wal-Mart and Target to get ?ideas?. The rule that I refuse to budge ? absolutely NO pink. I painfully picked out some needed supplies. Did I get those supplies? No. What did I get from her co-workers? Ugliness, pure pastel pink ugliness. I do understand the thought was there, but why is it so difficult to respect the new mother?s decision? This made me hate my unborn child even more. I cried as I realized that my unborn child had to be photographed in clothing that resembled pepto-bismol vomit.
After being hospitalized for pre-term labor at 29 and 30 weeks, my OB?s colleague was appointed my care due to her vacation. He was an idiot and tried giving me medication I was highly allergic to. The doctor had zero bedside manner. None. He didn?t read my charts, missed the bright red band on my wrist with my drug allergy and refused to listened to the nurses who believed my daughter was well ahead of the suggested gestational age. By this point, my husband and I were discussing a switch to another OB. We finally had the third strike. How could we trust this colleague to possibly deliver our baby if he doesn?t understand medical allergies? He put me on bed rest. Four days later, I took myself off. The medication given to slow the progress of pre-term labor did nothing to ease the contractions. I returned to her care and 34 weeks, I immediately switched OBs. Granted it should have been MUCH sooner, but regardless, I stuck it out. Every legitimate complaint I had about the pregnancy was pushed aside. My daughter?s foot was painfully wedged in between my ribs, ripping apart the muscle. She acted blind about the problem, not feeling for my daughter?s foot or giving a suggestion about re-positioning her foot. Never once during my antenatal care, did she feel the position of the baby. Only measuring for growth.
I was debating about breastfeeding pumping at first, but soon felt trapped with my mother-in-law as she tried to take my bras into Babies R Us to find the ?perfect? pump. Neither one of her boys were breast fed. Quite honestly, she was living vicariously through me. She wanted the best for her grand-daughter, not some laboratory formula. She also had to take pictures of everything? Including the delivery (which I immediately shut down) and me feeding our newborn ?properly? with human milk. Every time my mother-in-law brought up the front row seat at the delivery, the terror re-surfaced. I screamed at her. I told her to watch the paint dry at her own place. I told her son will be the ONLY visitor until we go home. I wanted to deliver at a hospital without her knowledge.
The new OB immediately noticed the flags. She stepped in and talked with my husband and I about formula feeding. She mentioned that because of my imminent threat to develop postpartum depression, breastfeeding would have been the death of me. She understood the predicament and questioned the surgical scar on my foot. By delivery, I had gained only 22 lbs. Most importantly, I was still in MY clothing. Due to the severe depression and the painful position of my daughter?s foot in my rib cage, I was medically induced at 38weeks. She saved my life. Come to find out, she also saved my daughter?s life. Her placenta was in the process of rupturing. I had no symptoms to question that my daughter?s health was in jeopardy, just my typical every few minute Braxton Hicks.
As I checked into the hospital, the assigned nurse asked about my feeding preference. I gave her my formula requirement. All but one nurse happily understood. The night nurse was a so-called breastfeeding nazi and tried everything to get me to give my daughter the colostrum. The moment she woke me up to feed my daughter and pushed breastfeeding, I asked her to leave. The lactation consultant was nice enough to give me pointers on how to dry up my milk, if, and when it did come in. As my almost 9lb daughter was being examined by the pediatrician, she quickly noticed my daughter was approximately 41 weeks gestation. That would explain the partial placenta rupture.
As I talked with the OB the next morning, she made a comment that has stuck into my mind. Happy Momma = Happy Baby = Happy Family. My delivering OB in her greatness, worked with my husband and I on how to alleviate postpartum depression. Breastfeeding was out. Leaving our place with a newborn in tow was in. Talking to friends and family was a must. After the tumultuous pregnancy, our marriage has thrived and my husband taught himself how to bond with his daughter. My husband became a stay-at-home father for eleven months. Yes, it was a role reversal, but financially, it was our only option because I carried the insurances. He could feed her without needing me to pump. Most importantly, he could bond and developed his own style of parenting and feeding. After a year of infant and parental development, anxiety and challenges, I can happily say that postpartum depression has not reared its ugly head.
I?m all for breast is best for baby, but what many people fail to understand, in some situations, breast is not best for the new mother. Some mothers cannot breastfeed due to a medical condition, severe mastitis, surgery or a crazy work schedule. Some infants do not accept the mother?s breast. I could not stay home any longer than 6 weeks. Pumping in my line of work is not appropriate nor accepted. I work corporate aircraft flight planning and cannot step away from the flight planning desk for a five minute lunch break, let alone ten minutes to pump. We do not have a pumping room and work a twelve hour swing shift rotation. Pumping in traffic was also not an option. We have to do what?s right for our family, not what is right for others. Our daughter is an extremely healthy and active one year old. She?s absolutely perfect, formula baby.
Share your story for FFF Friday. Email me at formulafeeders@gmail.com.
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