Miracle Milk
Where the hell is Vanuatu? That’s what I was furiously googling because it was the only place I could get my drugs. Not the good mind-altering kind but the prolactin raising boob-altering kind. I was desperate to get a hold of an unapproved gastro-intestinal drug that could be used off label to induce lactation. Our baby was to be born within the month, and I was now scrambling in an attempt to be able to breastfeed her.
After years of infertility and numerous miscarriages we finally surrendered to the idea that I was unable to carry a pregnancy myself. Now, we were incredibly fortunate to have a gestational carrier who would soon give birth. But I was way behind in the drug and hardcore pumping regime that would be necessary to trick my body into making breastmilk.
Months ago, when our pregnancy seemed to finally be a viable one, I had researched and read every book on induced lactation (there was only one at that time so it was easy). Through my research I found myself on strange and unfamiliar internet forums about adult women breastfeeding adult men. ANR’s (Adult Nursing Relationships), while a bit mystifying to me, did provide some of the medical advice I was seeking. I also came across some beautiful mythical stories of women, who when finding an orphan baby, instantly started to lactate again to meet the starving babies’ needs, as well as less altruistic tales of “wet nurses” who were often enslaved and lower-class women forced to feed upper-class women’s babies so that they wouldn’t have to stoop to such an unseemly task. Nowadays, breastfeeding is seen as a privilege for women who have the flexibility to take time off from work or jobs that provide them with private space to pump and save their breastmilk.
I combed through any information I could find to figure out how I could manage this miraculous feat myself—and then one morning I froze with fear and shut down.
The last seven years my body had been endlessly poked, probed, and measured, experiencing a continuous cycle of hope squashed by the arrival of my period or the crushing devastation of a miscarriage. I didn’t want to try anymore—I just could not fail at one more biological motherly thing.
Also I have tiny tits, something I was mercilessly teased for as a kid, with such witticisms as “hey you’re a carpenter’s dream…flat as a board!” Turns out I married a fantastic woodworker so I guess they weren’t wrong, but still my small A cups just didn’t seem like they were going to be the big producers, and I couldn’t shame my body anymore. It had suffered enough through years of infertility and a barrage of treatments.
In the eleventh hour, I decided being able to breastfeed was important to me and I would stifle the fear of failure and try. So all hands on deck, all eyes back to the Google search…find those elusive illegal drugs! I had no luck on Craigslist, where I had in the past bought many of my black market infertility medications so that we could afford them. I finally found some of the information I was looking for while scrolling through queer and trans forums where folx were looking for off-label drugs for breast augmentation. Domperidone is illegal in the United States.“Land of the free and the home of the brave,” only applies if you are white, cis-gender, heterosexual, and want to buy an AK-47. Your freedom ends if you dare to exert autonomy over your own body. I finally found out that you could buy Domperidone in Vanuatu, which turns out to be a small island in the South Pacific… Bali Ha’i ! This tiny island nation offers up goodies like off-shore banking and off-label pharmaceuticals. Having been financially hobbled by years of fertility treatments- we had no excess cash to hide, but I was thrilled to see we could at least afford the meds.Tankyu tumas (that’s “thank you” in Bislama, one of Vanuatu’s 138 dialects).
I marveled when I finally held the little white pills that had speedily made their way around the globe with free shipping and fantastic customer service.
I took the meds, I rented a medical grade breast pump, I bought the book on induced lactation and began pumping my breasts three times a day. The little plastic funnels tugged and pulled, sucking at my nipples (but not in a good way) as I watched and waited. I stared in the mirror every day and asked my partner if they noticed anything. I thought my breasts were looking fuller, but I also thought that when I was a tween doing breast exercises, so I wasn’t sure if I was a reliable narrator—hence my need for my partner’s verification.
My partner and I were out in the yard on a strangely hot October day, kissing and feeling frisky. As we rocked on the garden glider and started fooling around, I peeled off my shirt and sat aroused in the autumn sun when my partner exclaimed, “Hey there’s milk coming out of your breasts!”
I opened my eyes and looked down to see two enormous white droplets hanging off the ends of each of my nipples. In that moment of light and sunshine, I experienced an existential vision. It was like being one of those statues of a saint that cries tears or exudes blood. I was shaking with the revelation and surprise at this miracle of milk—my own breastmilk! Without the preparation of pregnancy, it was incredibly alien and exciting. It derailed the make-out session as I rushed into the house to look in the mirror and witness the droplets of milk as they fell from my breasts in splashes on the bathroom tile, only to be mirrored by my tears of amazement.
The birth of our daughter and everything that followed was surreal, wonderful and terrifying. I was lucky enough to find an incredible lactation doula who came to our house and helped me get the right latch,which was imperative because an improper latch felt like a steel trap on your boob. The moment my daughter’s rosebud of a mouth joined my breast in a harmonious and symbiotic relationship of nourishment is one of the peak experiences of my life. Much of the pain and suffering and the god awful 3am pumpings dissolved in that healing moment.
But then, real life, away from those miraculous moments, kicks your ass again. I couldn’t make enough milk for her and there were aspects to feeding her that were like a science experiment. I had to strap on a pouch of extra milk and have a little tube taped to my nipple, similar to an IV, that went into her mouth to supplement her as she fed. I had to increase production which meant more pumpings in between feedings. I was so sleep deprived that when the breast pump chugged along at 3am, the sound of the motor seemed to be saying “shut up, shut up” and “no good, good” over and over again. Proud moments also got measured in milliliters as I struggled to fill the little plastic canisters with the white gold. I woke up to hard little grapefruit breasts that sprayed breastmilk all over the sheets if I couldn’t get to the pump fast enough, YAY galactorrhea, I had arrived!
To have enough breast milk for her for the first few months, I solicited wonderful women in mom’s groups and depended on the kindness of utter (udder, lol) strangers who met me in parking lots with coolers full of their donations of frozen breastmilk, which sometimes felt a little like illicit drug deals.
My daughter thrived. She had seven different women’s breast milk, with all their amazing antibodies. I was able to breastfeed her for about nine months. And then? She just decided she didn’t want to breastfeed anymore. I think the bottle was easier for her.
But I breastfed longer than some of the mothers I knew, and I was proud that I had done it. Not because I had been able to do something “natural” like breastfeed; I knew from experience that there is no “normal” when it comes to building a family. Most folks will be challenged somewhere. I was proud of myself for resisting my fear and allowing myself to be vulnerable again. My daughter and I had this incredible bonding experience, and for the first time in my whole crazy journey to motherhood, complete with my misfiring womb, I had done something just like other women. I had not been able to carry her, but I had been able to feed her!
About the Author
Ellenora Cage is a photographer and writer whose work has been published in Narrative Magazine, MUTHA Magazine, The Strange Recital Podcast, Hyperallergic Magazine, and Seven Secrets to the Perfect Personal Essay by Nancy Aronie.
