I’m worried. I’ve written before about the failure of my breasts to do anything remotely breast like, and my concerns about my future ability to breastfeed.
Today I was reading Jill’s update on her blog about her current issues with breastfeeding, and clicked over to this link that she posted about PCOS and breastfeeding. It feels like the final nail in my breastfeeding coffin.
Nail 1: I did not experience any galactorrhoea (milk production) when I had very high Prolactin levels from my pituitary adenoma (which is often the prime symptom).
Nail 2: My breasts have not changed at all with pregnancy. Not one little bit. They haven’t been sore, and they haven’t grown. I can still fit all my pre-pregnancy bras. While I’m not upset that my DD or E size boobs haven’t expanded into F or G cups, it does worry me that they have remained so inert.
Nail 3: PCOS and it’s link with hypoplastic breast tissue.
Interestingly, I’ve never heard a single doctor mention the link between PCOS and inability to breastfeed, and I’ve never read it in a text book or journal article. I asked my father about it (which will seem less bizarre once I point out that he’s an obstetrician) and he doesn’t believe that there’s a correlation. But I have to say, the physiology that was (albeit briefly) described in the LLL article does seem to make sense.
The upshot of all that: I’m worried.
At the end of the day, I realise that I am incredibly lucky to be pregnant, and if I can’t breastfeed I will still have a healthy and happy baby (hopefully!). But just like I have imagined that moment when the doctor announces “It’s a girl!” or “It’s a boy!”, so I have imagined breastfeeding my baby. Looking down at my child’s cute button nose pressed in to my breast, feeling that connection, knowing that I am nurturing them. If I don’t get that experience, I know that part of me will feel just a little bit… ripped off.
In temporally and anatomically related – but contextually unrelated – news, I was hanging out the washing this morning a felt a tickle in my cleavage. I looked down expecting to find a stray hair or piece of lint, and what I found instead was a spider. There was a spider! In. my. bra.
I hate spiders and was so freaked out that I had to call H mid-hyperventilation so he could calm me down. There I was, outside by the clothes line only 2 metres from the neighbour’s house, desperately trying to get the spider out of my bra without touching it, and almost completely disrobing in the process.
My breasts may be a useful spider-catching tool, and they certainly make my clothes fit nicely, but I’m starting to worry that they won’t ever fulfil the purpose for which they are actually intended.
I guess only time will tell.