The Clandestine Acquisition Of A Breast PumpSponsored Links
by Barbara Fisher of Tigers and Strawberries Food Blog (Note from the editor: Barbara needed to establish her milk supply with a breast pump because her newborn infant was in neo-natal intensive care immediately after birth.) First of all, the hospital where I gave birth to Kat gave me a manual breast pump (which really looks Seussian to my eyes) to use to establish my milk supply and make enough nutrition for Kat. The pump, ironically enough, sucked. Or rather, it didn’t suck. And here I was, supposed to pump every two hours from birth, in order to get my breasts into the routine of making colostrum and milk. Using the manual pump, it took me approximately forty five minutes to get an ounce of colostrum. Forty minutes. And then, I have to turn around and an hour and twenty minutes later, pump again. For at least another forty minutes. Over and over again every twenty-four hour period. (For those who are not in the know about nursing, breasts, and milk production, this is how one establishes a milk supply when one’s infant is not present and nursing. Breast milk is made on a demand basis. If you do not have a baby nursing at the breast or you do not pump, no matter what your hormones tell your breasts, they will make little, if any milk. Pumping every two hours simulates the typical nursing behavior of a hungry newborn, who must eat about every two hours, because their wee stomachs fill and empty very quickly.) Right. Um, no. So, I called my doula, Angela, ( who sadly didn’t get to be present at the birth–which is just as well, I suppose, though I was looking forward to working with her, because it was so fast that I am not really sure what she would have done) and asked if she knew where I could get a breast pump, on a Saturday, in the Athens area. It turns out that there is a woman named Heidi in Athens who sells good electric breast pumps from Medela. She is one of the La Leche League leaders in town, and she also teaches childbirth classes. (In fact, I was going to call her up for information about childbirthing classes, but I guess I don’t need a class now…..) So, at seven in the evening, I called her, and ended up leaving a message on her answering machine, telling her that she could call me at any time since I was going to be up and down all night. So, Heidi called me at 11:30 Saturday night. And told me that she had the exact breast pump I wanted and needed, and that I could come right over. I said, “But I am in my pajamas.” Heidi laughed and said, “So am I. So, come over and pick up the pump, and we can admire each other’s pajamas.” So, since I am not allowed to drive after losing a lot of blood, my Mom put on her clothes, grabbed the keys to her truck, and I put on my kimono over my nightgown, and off we went, through the darkened streets of Athens, on a mission to pick up a breast pump. It felt very clandestine, being as we were traveling through sleeping neighborhoods, me in my nightclothes, Mom with a cigarette hanging from her mouth. We drove up to the proper house–the one on the street with the porch light on and the front door open–and Mom warned me to wait until the truck had come to a complete stop before jumping out. “Ma,” I said, “You don’t need to worry. I’m not exactly feeling up to any Indiana Jones maneuvers right at this moment.” (Bleeding, cramps and stitches in a very private place will do that to even the most adventurous of woman, fictional or real. I cannot imagine even Lara Croft, that pixilated bimbo, would want to go jumping out of even slowly-moving vehicles right after giving birth.) On the porch, under the light, waited Heidi herself, dressed in pink pj’s and fluffy slipper socks. She smiled welcomingly, and waved us toward the open door. “You must be Barbara,” she said, as Mom and I climbed the stairs–her slow because of her cane, and me slow because of the aforementioned stitches and whatnot. As we headed toward the kitchen, a very warm and cozy place indeed, I was struck by the surreal nature of the moment. Here I was, in my nightclothes, in the kitchen of a woman I have just met, who is in her pajamas, the rest of whose house is obviously sleeping, on a street where the rest of the world was sleeping, on a quest to buy, of all things, an electric breast pump. It was really silly, after all, so I started to giggle. I giggled all through writing the check, and gathering up the breast pump and its accessories, and shaking Heidi’s hand at the door. “Nice kimono,” she said, as I turned to slowly descend her porch steps. “Nice jammies,” I said, as I waved back, smiling. Heidi watched us go, then closed her door and put out the porch light. The clandestine breast pump deal was done, and I was on my way home, after clambering into Mom’s truck, that is. (And listening to her grind the gears–the poor thing is on its last legs. The truck, I mean, not Mom. For all that she has a cane, she is pretty hale and hearty, thankfully.) We roared off into the night, and I realized I was suddenly grateful for generous women who will do whatever they can to help other women breastfeed their babies–even if their babies are in a neo-natal intensive care unit an hour and a half away. That kind of love for one’s fellow man is rare and precious, indeed. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Republished by permission from the blog post of 21 September 2006 |
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Medela Breast Pumps Economy Personal Electric Breast Pumps (details) |
