Milk

I just realized that I haven't pumped at all today. Not because I was avoiding it (although I wanted to avoid it for the first couple of days, because the thought of it and the memories of all those hours pumping over the last couple of months weighed so heavy on my chest), but because I didn't need to. 6 days ago, on Monday, I was making between 6 and 8 ounces of milk every 3 hours. Like clockwork. If Riley ate so much as 15 minutes late, my breasts turned into boulders on my chest. Every time he ate, no matter how heartily, I had to pump afterwards to reach anything resembling comfort. I assumed we would have plenty of time to correct this imbalance. I was wrong.

Instead, I went from having milk running out my ears (or more accurately, out my freezer... We had to buy a deep freeze to accommodate the excess) to no milk at all. I was so full at the hospital after we let him go. The nurses brought me a pump in the chapel so that I could get some relief. And I sat there in that stained-glass room my pajamas, knowing that the coroner was examining my lifeless baby boy at that very moment. I pumped, staring vacantly into space as tears streamed freely down my face, falling into hot, wet blotches in my lap. The soft whoosh of the pump carried on in its normal rhythm as if nothing had happened. But everything had happened. In the span of an hour and a half (he ate around 3 and we found him at 4:30), my whole world caved in. I went from the happiest I had ever been to sadder and more empty than I ever dreamed possible. Oh, how far we fell.

I pumped probably 3 times that Tuesday. Maybe twice on Wednesday. Twice on Thursday. Once yesterday, the day of Riley's funeral, before bed. My breasts felt full and heavy and sad. My heart felt empty and heavy and sad.

But today, they are soft. Empty.

Like me.

Part of this is probably because right now I have trouble eating. I didn't eat at all on Tuesday. I've eaten sporadically since then, although somehow eating makes me feel bizarrely guilty. I think part of the dramatic decrease in production must be psychological. I think so much of what caused me to overflow with milk was my happiness. My desire to help Riley, to nourish him, to give him life and make him grow. To give him chubby cheeks and roly poly arms like my other babies grew at my breast.

I would think of him and fill up. I would walk into the NICU and let down before I even laid eyes on him. When we started "non-nutritive" feeds, we quickly realized that there was no such thing... As soon as that precious boy got anywhere near me, my breasts would fill with milk again, no matter how completely I had pumped to empty them. But now, there is no joy. I am every bit as empty inside as I was filled with happiness before. It feels like someone has completely carved me out like a jack-o-lantern. Or maybe they carved me on Tuesday morning at 4:30 am, and now I wilt more and more by the day, caving in on myself a little more each hour, until soon I will just be a sad puddle of rotten pumpkin on the porch, no good to anyone.

I think my breasts have comprehended this loss much more quickly than I have.

It just makes no sense.