Mar. 27 - Mothers' Milk Bank

I was tempted not to write about this, but my sister convinced me to go ahead. Anyone whose stomach might turn at the words "mother's milk," "nursing," or "lactation" might want to skip reading this post. But, with my female audience in mind, here goes.

When I returned to work after my maternity leave with Jonathan, I'd make a trip to the Sieben's lactation room twice a day to ensure Jonathan had bottles for daycare. I always hated pumping. It was such an inconvenience, interrupting the work day and requiring me to haul my tubes, cones, valves and bottles around. And the tediousness of the constant cleaning. Ugh.

The lactation room itself was cold with bright, harsh lights and a teal, vinyl-covered recliner (which makes me sure the folks designing the rooms are a bunch of men, because the logistics of reclining while pumping just do not work out) next to a table that was far too small to fit both a clunky tan phone and one of the magazines from a nearby rack. It didn't help matters that you could hear every conversation held in the adjacent corridor, or that the room was in such high demand that, even though we scheduled our time on the sign-up sheet, inevitably there would be one or two attempts from some stranger to enter the room when the poor soul inside (often me) was feeling most exposed.

One day, someone left a copy of O Magazine in the room with a note inviting other mothers to read the article "One Woman's Mission to Save Babies," about a 37-year-old woman, Lynn Page, who gave birth to triplets at 23 weeks. Two of her babies died within 24 hours, but she pumped freezers full of breast milk as she waited for her surviving daughter, Reese, to be well enough to leave the hospital. Reese lived for six and a half months, and Lynn had only been able to hold her a couple dozen times. When I read how Reese had died in Lynn's arms, with Lynn's husband Chris by her side, I wondered what the chances were that she would die just then. Well, now I know. The medical staff can see when the end is coming, so they let parents hold their child one final time to say goodbye.

I sobbed over Lynn's story. I couldn't imagine having to suffer that kind of loss. (Nobody can. That's what Chris and I keep hearing now, too.) But unwilling to let all that precious milk go to waste, she contacted WakeMed Mothers' Milk Bank in North Carolina, an organization that processes donated milk to be given to other premature infants or patients with conditions for which breast milk has been found to be beneficial. Although WakeMed would arrange for shipment, Lynn and Chris felt compelled to deliver it themselves, as it felt like they were handing over their connection to Reese. After reading their story, my heart ached for Lynn and I felt all the more thankful for my healthy Jonathan at home.

Our first day in the PICU with Garrett, the nurses set me up with a pumping kit and showed me where the breastfeeding room was. I thought it was odd that this room was called a breastfeeding room, whereas every other room with a chair, sink and pump on the Mayo campus was apparently called a lactation room. If a mom was breastfeeding in the PICU, you'd think she'd do it in her baby's room. But anyway ...

The nurse who was showing me the room, and where to find the containers and labels, told me the pump was "the Cadillac of breast pumps." Apparently, your typical consumer pump does the job for expressing enough milk while you're at work, but the hospital-grade ones are more powerful to enable a mother to keep her supply steady when she can't actually nurse her baby for an extended period of time. She was right. My milk hadn't even come in yet when we arrived at the PICU, but the pump did just what it was supposed to do and by the time Garrett could nurse again, I wound up having too much and needing to pump for my own sake then.

But when I was first handed the packaged tubes and cones, I wasn't particularly looking forward to pumping, and I certainly didn't realize I'd be doing it for days and days. I remembered Lynn when I set myself up in the breastfeeding room and thought, "Thank goodness that's not my story. Thank God my Garrett is getting better. I'm pumping now to make sure I have milk when he's ready to eat again, but he's not going to need this. He'll be nursing, after all."

In contrast to the lactation room in Siebens, this one was like my personal oasis. It had soft, dimmed light and was noticeably warmer than the rest of the PICU floor. Instead of a recliner, it had a glider that let you rock to the whir-whir-whir of the pump. There were a number of times that room welcomed my tears as I agonized over whether Garrett would make it through his first procedure, or thought about the torture he endured in the ER. I didn't necessarily go there expecting to melt down, but when you're constantly around other people, I suppose it's only natural for your emotions to finally bubble up when you've found some privacy.

At other times, though, being able to lock out the equipment and beeping monitors of the PICU, settling into the glider and thinking about how well Garrett was doing, I actually found it to be quite relaxing. I nearly fell asleep on a few occasions. In fact, I'm fairly certain I did fall asleep once, as I woke up just in time to discover my two nine-ounce bottles were nearly overflowing.

In the beginning, the nurses stressed how important it would be to pump every two to three hours to keep my supply up while Garrett was intubated. More than one nurse made a point of asking, "When was the last time you pumped? The cardiologist should be in in 15 minutes. It'd be a good time to pump once he leaves. You really need to keep your supply up. You'd be amazed at how fast he'll go through the milk once he can take it."

At first I felt guilty for letting the time lapse to four or five hours, but I remembered how, when I was pumping for Jonathan, I could skip a session and still express nearly two-sessions worth at the next one, so I suspected my body would produce what it would produce, regardless of the frequency of my pumping intervals. And I was right. Sometimes I'd go six, seven, even eight hours without pumping, and still managed just fine. At this point, it wasn't a matter of not wanting to pump, but with juggling doctors, visitors, and Garrett's test, it was always a struggle to find time.

The nurses quite checking on how faithfully I was pumping when I had filled an entire shelf with 2.5-ounce containers in the PICU freezer. In fact, one nurse seemed particularly surprised when she was helping me pack up to move with Garrett to the general floor. She had brought a large plastic bag for the breast milk and asked which ones in the freezer were mine. I said all of them, but she still checked the name on each container before placing it in the bag.

About six containers in, she said, "Oh my goodness." Then another ten or so containers went by and she gave a more emphatic, "Oh my goodness!" and added, "You know, I think you'd be safe to pump and dump now if you wanted to." That made me wonder whether she had children, or if she nursed or ever had to pump herself. I wouldn't think someone who had to pump herself would consider dumping the milk out if there's a way to keep it for later use -- and Saint Marys has the system down for pumping and storing the milk. If I'm going to take the time to pump, there's no way I'm dumping that "liquid gold" out.

When we finally discharged from Saint Marys with instructions to give Garrett formula-fortified bottles, I was glad to have a significant stash established already. But he really didn't go through that much before he passed away, and I had nearly 200 ounces left over. That's a far cry from the 56 gallons Lynn Page pumped, but with so much effort feeling like ... not a waste exactly ... but feeling unfruitful, I wanted to donate the milk so that some baby somewhere might benefit.

When Garrett died, the nurses asked what they could do for us, if there was a funeral home they should call or if we wanted our pastor to come to the hospital. I wasn't sure what to do about that yet, but I asked them if they knew where I could donate the breast milk. I don't think any of them had heard of such a thing, but they did some research and found an organization, although whoever they spoke to said I'd have to be persistent when I called to get them to take it. That seemed odd. It shouldn't be work to give that kind of gift.

So I later searched online, and after reaching a couple dead ends, eventually got in contact with Indiana Mothers' Milk Bank. I filled out an initial questionnaire and was approved as a donor. After completing some additional forms and having blood drawn and sent to their lab, I received a pre-paid UPS box, however I needed to find some dry ice to keep the milk cold en route.

It took a lot longer than I expected to finally get everything in place to send the milk off, though. (But don't worry. Expressed milk can be stored for up to a year in a chest or upright freezer, so it wasn't in any danger of going bad just yet.) It was probably a couple weeks before I got in touch with Indiana Mother's Milk Bank, and then a week or so before the paperwork and instructions for the blood draw got to me. The first box they sent never arrived, so they had to send another one. And then it was at least two weeks before I finally tracked down dry ice at Mississippi Welder's. (Who would have guessed it'd be sold there?) Then I had to wait for a Monday morning when I could coordinate coming to Rochester, buying the dry ice and getting to UPS right when they opened at 8 a.m.so that there wouldn't be any delays in shipping.

So finally, finally, on Monday, March 15th, just over three months after Garrett passed away, I brought the box into UPS. The man behind the counter asked what it was. I'm sure that's just a standard question they're required to ask, but I felt a little awkward saying, "Um ... expressed milk?" He said, "Okay. That's all I needed to know." And that was that.

Mine wasn't the emotional endeavor Lynn's was. I didn't feel much of anything walking out of UPS, except slight embarrassment over having to tell some unsuspecting guy that he was holding a hefty box of my breast milk. Oh well.

So now Lynn's story is my story, too. I didn't want it to be. I didn't even consider it would be until Garrett's final moments. But, as they say, it is what it is. Hopefully some babies somewhere will be helped by it.