Mastitis: the red hot mama
Originally written in 2016 - but still painfully relevant for feeding mamas today!
Mastitis and I are well acquainted; we have a long, tortuous relationship dating back to the first few days of my eldest’s life. It’s because I over-produce milk. Too much milk leads to blocked ducts; blocked ducts make a home for bacteria. I’ve had many bouts but the last was by far the worst.
Just give me a break, I just need 30 minutes of sleep, please.
D has been feeding two to three hourly, despite being 8 months old. I am shattered and frayed at the edges. At least it’s a Sunday – I’m only on 50% duty.
D is crying. My phone reads 03:00am. Automatically I put my hands on my chest. I’ve leaked through my pads, bra and top, onto the bedsheets (not unusual for me) but I have a heavy pain and rock hard left boob. Fantastic – another blocked duct.
It’s not long before the shakes start: uncontrollable, head to toe juddering. My teeth chatter so loudly; why is my Mister still snoring? I feel dreadful. I prod him into fetching me blankets. He tucks me in before heading off to work leaving me to examine the beasts; hefty lefty is in a bad way, an angry red rock emanating heat. Feeding D has gone from toe-curlingly uncomfortable to full blown hysteria. Labour surely wasn’t this bad?!
Today I am going on a staycation with the boys. I am pretty sure I can go, I just need to get from horizontal to vertical without throwing up. My head is pounding; I am forced to hold it steady. I WILL power through.
Powering through is not going to plan. I need back-up. It’s too early to phone the in-laws. I need to wait until 08:00am. At 07:30 I phone them. Now just to get the kids fed and dressed. I sit hunched over, dressing gown on, shovelling porridge into D, cursing the forever-engaged doctor’s surgery. Waiting on the cavalry, I lie on the floor. G is dancing about in his birthday suit but frankly I couldn’t care less. The nurse had told me to start my rescue antibiotics and I contemplate moving to get them, maybe later.
My knight in shining armour, wearing house-shoes and berry red lipstick, brings me D whenever he is due a feed. Otherwise I don’t hear a peep from the mother-in-law or the kids. How are they so quiet?! I must ask them their secret.
It’s dark. Mister is home from work. He starts having a go about where the car is parked, telling me that he thought I was hysterical. It makes no sense. The next day I have a bit more energy, I am angry and confront him. It WAS nonsense. A feverish hallucination. Whoops!
By Thursday I was expecting to be feeling a little brighter; four days into the antibiotics, with regular pain relief and plenty of fluids. I am not feeling better. My in-laws have become full-time carers….. to us all. It’s time I got hefty lefty the once over.
I grit my teeth, “Just do what you have to.” The doctor gives me a kneading, saying “Well I can’t feel an abscess but it’s not great.” She decided to prescribe the big guns, Co-amoxiclav. Surely this will knock it on the head?
Saturday: it’s G’s 2nd birthday party. Perhaps Mister could go solo with the boys? But then perhaps a room full of screaming two year olds might be just what the doctor ordered? Clearly I am feeling better.
By Sunday I am no longer a red hot mama. I’m me and I’ve been AWOL for a week; the washing basket has exploded, the fridge is empty and the highchair has a life of its own.
Rosie x
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