Tag: Breastfeeding

Keeping abreast of motherhood

Calamitousmummy

How many of you have heard, I wonder, that after being pregnant and breastfeeding it’s advisable to go for a mammogram to check all is in order?  I’ve been told that three times now, at two separate NHS hospital breast clinics, yet my local GP seems surprised by this…

I would have been none the wiser too, if it weren’t for the fact I developed mastitis and milk cysts in January 2015 in the early stages of breastfeeding MiniM#1. Luckily a trip to Pembury hospital and young doctor brandishing a giant needle put pay to my pain. I even got to watch the ultrasound replay of the milk being siphoned off, which was perversely fascinating. It was then I was told to come back for a mammogram when I’d finished breastfeeding.

Except I was pregnant again with MiniM#2 before I’d stopped breastfeeding MiniM#1. And the mastitis returned after giving birth again. I returned to Pembury but no milk cysts this time. Just a reminder to get a mammogram when I’d finished breastfeeding.

When MiniM#2 was 6 months old I received a letter from Pembury hospital inviting me back for a mammogram but I was still breastfeeding so couldn’t attend. I remember being put on hold for ages when trying to cancel my appointment. I was busy, still trying to run my own business while simultaneously look after a 6-month-old and a barely 2-year-old. I was passed to several different members of hospital staff, but never connected with the right department. In the end I left a message with someone to cancel it for me, never certain that they actually had.

If it proved that tricky to cancel an appointment, I imagined it would be even trickier to reschedule an appointment when I didn’t even have the correct number to call and the referral had come direct from the hospital and not my GP.

Yet, my ‘missed mammogram’ nagged away at the back of my mind. Then in January this year, I heard reported on BBC 4’s Today Programme (also on BBC News online) that mammograms were recommended for detecting cancers in 35 to 39-year-olds ‘at risk’ and that NHS screening often starts at the age of 40 for women with a family history. 

I was 40 and had a family history – my grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer and my aunt with ovarian cancer. And I’d just finished watching Series 8 of Cold Feet, blubbing away at Jenny’s diagnosis…

So I called my local GP. The receptionist said I only had to be 25 for a mammogram, before twigging that was smear tests and I actually had to be 50 (!) I insisted and finally spoke to a doctor, who eventually agreed to see me (purely based on the fact I had erroneously told her my grandmother was in her 50s when she was diagnosed with breast cancer – my mother later told me she had been 62!)

Exactly two weeks ago, the doctor examined me and found a ‘sizeable lump’ near my right underarm and said I would need to be fast-tracked for a mammogram.

I tried not to, but inwardly I panicked.  Of course I did. Compounding matters, that very day I was asked to work on a PR project for one of my French clients who had invested in a company specialising in artificial intelligence for breast screening to better detect breast cancer. I had to market the story and secure an exclusive with the French national media.

My appointment was today at Maidstone hospital. A registrar quickly examined me – telling me, again, I should have had a mammogram after pregnancy and breastfeeding – and then I was bundled off for a mammogram. The wonderful news I was in the clear was slightly dulled by DH rushing off in the wrong direction to the car park in his haste to return to work, without so much as a celebratory hug, or listening to me saying we were going the wrong way…

And then I began to worry the registrar had examined me too quickly. What was the lump? And the mammogram didn’t even target the area the original doctor had found the supposed lump so what if the registrar missed it?

So I called my local GP back. “You should have told this to the registrar at the time,” I’m told flatly by the receptionist, after explaining my need for another appointment. “You should have told him to check the correct place.” I’m almost speechless at the receptionist casting judgement!

“Yes I should have done,” I managed to muster. “But it wasn’t the most relaxing environment: having a male registrar feel my breasts while a nurse looked on, with my husband sitting on the other side of the screen.”  I wasn’t exactly going to say ‘oh feel them a bit more please…’.

“And I believe it’s common in worrying situations not to say things you later wish you’d said,” I continued diplomatically (knowing that when I’d hung up there’d be things I wished I’d said to her….). There was a pause. “The doctor can see you in an hour,” she said. “And she’s very nice…”

She was very nice. And I definitely don’t have any lumps; it was probably just glands or hormones that the previous doctor had felt. But she appeared surprised I had been advised to have a mammogram simply because I’d been pregnant and breastfeeding.

In my mind I’m relieved to have insisted on having that mammogram and the extra checks. It’s certainly put my mind at rest after four years of niggling worrying about missing that mammogram. And I’m glad to have this worry out the way for tomorrow’s call I’m hosting between French national daily Les Echos and the pioneering breast screening company.

But if it’s such a struggle for women under 50 to have a mammogram, isn’t it time to get some clarity on the risks given there’s such conflicting information out there? I worry about all those women whose lumps go undetected until it’s too late.

Feel free to post your comments underneath or on my Facebook page

Breastfeeding: milking it

Calamitousmummy

Something as natural as breastfeeding should be easy to master, right? This was my misguided assumption when I was pregnant first time around with Tinytoes, but oh how wrong I was.  Nearly two years later and breastfeeding with Microtoes finally going ok, I feel it’s the right time to cast a critical eye over what went wrong and what went right, as well as sharing a few tips I’ve picked up along the way.

With Tinytoes things went downhill from the outset. I had the milk supply, but she struggled to latch. I was kept in hospital for 6 days after giving birth so that every health worker, carer, lactation specialist, midwife, you name it, could file into my room to poke, prod, squeeze, pump and manhandle my breasts.  Some would ask if I minded them touching me first, while others would dive straight in, hands still smelling of cigarettes from their fag break as they grasped my newborn’s head. Tinytoes screaming, milk spraying everywhere.

When it because clear that Tinytoes wasn’t having any of it – figuratively and literally –the expressing started. Hand expressing to begin with: often there would be one ‘carer’ working at each breast, while a third would hold my screaming baby. The hospital fridge steadily began to amass syringes full of my colostrum.

On day 3, the milk police handed me over to the electric breast pump.  Bottle upon bottle of my milk filled the hospital fridge until there was more than Tinytoes could drink. I felt like a battery cow. My breasts were like rocks, aching with too much unwanted milk. By day 6 I was begging the hospital staff to let me go home. It was obvious my baby was never going to latch, but at least I was painfully aware how to express and administer my milk via a bottle.

A few weeks later a lactation consultant told me to stop expressing. “Your body thinks you have twins” she said.  Instead I discovered that nipple shields (pieces of plastic that emulate the teat of a bottle) allowed me to feed my baby directly and stimulated my milk supply less than the expressing.  (She tried to discourage me from using nipple shields too, as they also stimulate milk production, and are a faff to use, but I ignored her as I was sick of spending 3 hours at a time trying to get Tinytoes to latch.)

Although it has to be said that nipple shields are fiddly little devices, which caused me my fair share of anguish. Breastfeeding in public – and the possibility of revealing my nipple to total strangers, or indeed friends and family – is not something I’m entirely comfortable with.  Yet Tinytoes became awfully good at rearing back her head and knocking my sterilised nipple shield to the ground with her tiny hands, revealing everything to everyone.

On one occasion I was so determined to be as quick and discrete as possible at ‘setting up’ the feed, I didn’t notice I’d placed the nipple shield next to rather than over my nipple. I turned back to my friends and continued my conversation, blissfully unaware that Tinytoes was not actually drinking any milk. It was only a good 10 minutes later, I was horrified to discover she had sucked so hard she had moulded my breast to the inside of the nipple shield!

Over the following weeks and months I was to endure the joys of reoccurring mastitis, cold sweats and having milk cysts suctioned out of me with a giant needle. I would wake in the night so drenched in milk we’d need to change the bed sheets. All this could have been avoided if I knew then what I know now. It was the doctor who removed my milk cysts who eventually told to run a hot bath to siphon off excess milk and massage out any blocked ducts as soon the tell-tale red patches of mastitis appeared. And I finally tracked down a nursing bra to fit my new Dolly Parton-sized breasts, ridiculously big for my small frame, that I could wear at night with breast pads to stop the leakages.

I do realise I was lucky to have a good milk supply. I have friends who experienced the reverse issue and were unable to produce enough milk to feed their hungry baby, which must be equally soul-destroying, but in a different way. When I told one friend about the hospital fridge running out of room for my milk, she countered that with her dismay at seeing her 10ml of proudly expressed milk sitting alongside the full bottles of other mums’ milk.

But, besides the physical discomfort, I struggled to get my head around the disillusionment and a strange feeling of ‘rejection’: I had the milk but my baby refused to take it from me. She didn’t have tongue tie, only ‘possible posterior tongue tie’ that was not severe enough to stop her from feeding. There must have been an explanation – most likely the stress and pressure put on me in the hospital which Tinytoes would have picked up on

And so it was, that after 5 long months of grappling with nipple shields, Tinytoes suddenly decided she wanted to breastfeed normally.  Just like that. I kept going until she was a year old – suddenly life became easier again.

With Microtoes, things were immediately easier. I chose to give birth in a birthing centre – anything to avoid a hospital. She started to feed within minutes of being born. But she was a ‘lazy feeder.’ She would suck for a few seconds and then fall fast asleep. She wasn’t taking in enough milk, but I still came home the next day; terrified of a repeat performance of what happened with Tinytoes.

Night times were particularly tedious. She would cry for a feed. I would put her to my breast and she would fall straight back asleep again. So I would put her back in her cot and into her grobag, then she would cry for a feed again. And so it continued.

I struggled to find a good position. The only successful breastfeeding position I found was lying prostrate on the floor, which sometimes allowed Microtoes to feed, but hardly practical if shopping on the High Street.

I began to worry she was losing weight so we returned to birthing centre, where I discovered she had in fact gained weight. I may have even shed a tear of joy. One of the midwives then sat me in a comfy chair and told me to relax and to stop tensing my shoulders. And gently placed Microtoes in the crook of my arm, where she began to feed and feed and feed. I realised I had been so traumatised by my unsuccessful attempts with Tinytoes, that my next baby had been picking up on my anxiety.

It hasn’t all been plain sailing with Microtoes. I’ve had the night sweats, headaches, hot red patches and high temperatures. But, although I have a prescription for antibiotics, I’ve thus far managed to avoid full-on mastitis and avoid taking any medication this time around.

She’s two months old and I reckon I’ve more or less cracked it. She latches and stares up adoringly at me while she feeds – just how I always imagined it would be to breastfeed.

Watch this space for my top tips for breastfeeding – coming soon.