Night Feeds

Her eyes are heavy. She isn’t sure if she slept or just dozed. Everything is still and quiet. She’d only drifted over, she thought. Or maybe she had slept for hours. It was hard to know. Through her parting lashes, a soft flickering light from her mobile phone sitting on the bedside locker gently guides her awake. Five unread messages. She can see the words blurring into one on the screen. She is too exhausted to read them. The room is warm. A clean smell penetrates throughout, sweet florals clouded by an antiseptic odour nipping at her nose, stinging at the inside of her mouth. One leg lies atop the thin blanket that sprawls across the small single bed. The rough threading catching at her skin. She slowly tries to move herself. Her arms reluctantly heaving her weary body upwards. Fatigued, her eyelids barely open as they try to adjust to their surroundings. A stealth like chill penetrates the stuffy air. A slice of sterile light seeps under the door. She can hear a muffled chatter of voices and distant footsteps in the corridor. The rhythmic beat of a machine dances in time with her breathing. An eerie, lonely silence cocoons her, yet she is surrounded by so many others in neighbouring rooms. Afraid. Anxious.

She tries to ease herself back against the soft pillow, shifting her hips to gain support for her lower back but her body sinks into it. The delicate filling of the pillow is wrapped in a stiff, highly starched casing. Small snapping sounds emanating from it as she squirms and shuffles to get comfortable. Mission impossible she thinks as she clumsily pushes the itchy blue top sheet off her, driving it down the bed with her feet. She wished she was wearing pyjama bottoms to protect her skin from the rough bedding, but she knew they would be too tight. She hadn’t felt at ease wearing any type of trousers in weeks. Despite looking like she was draped in curtains from a 1980’s Belfast living room, she had voluntarily opted for the large paisley print nightie, buttons evenly spread from the top to the waist, that she had grabbed during a caffeine deprived visit to Dunnes. Unflattering. Unattractive. Unexpectedly forgiving.

Small, stifled breaths break through the quiet of the night. Her eyes move down to the little clear crib placed parallel to her bed. The plastic shell scuffed and scratched, etched with many stories just like hers. Tiny breaths sucked through a nose so small and still laden with goop and mucus. A tiny stomach rising rhythmically up and down. Tiny fingers with tiny nails, small and wrinkled. Too much skin for such small hands. Tiny eyelids fluttering in a deep sleep. “Are you dreaming? What are you dreaming of?” she thinks. So small. So new. So perfect.

Carefully she tries to move herself on the bed, her body unable to find any relief in the rigid mattress and too soft pillow. She knows she should try to get some rest, but she isn’t as reactive as she needs to be. Carefully pulling herself into position, she is preparing herself for that little cry of hunger. Instinct or maybe just fear about this new responsibility, she sits waiting. Her hair feels cold against her scalp; still damp from the shower she managed to take the previous evening. She had scraped it back into a bun. Drying and styling it was beyond the realms of her post birth haze. If it wasn’t for the cold plastic fold down chair that a midwife had placed in the shower and the hair washing duties assumed by her husband, the shower itself would have been beyond her capabilities. She can’t remember what the midwife looked like exactly, but she remembers seeing the empathy in her eyes. She did not tut or judge but silently placed the chair in the small cubicle, a hint of a sympathetic smile on her face. Sitting on the seat in the shower, it was as much as she could do to keep her eyes open to watch the red tinged water loop and swirl down the drain, along with whatever dignity she had left she thought. Despite the warm water pulsating down across her body, soothing and heating at her bare skin, she was shaking. Adrenaline or shock, she was not sure, but the warmth of the shower did not bring the solace it normally did. It wasn’t her regular shower regime of two shampoos and a five-minute conditioning mask while she washed and exfoliated her body. Everything had changed. Until now she only thought she knew what exhaustion was.

An animated conversation from outside her room window breaches the silence. She watches tentatively as tiny fists move, fingers splaying out then bunching up, searching until they come to rest inside a little sucking mouth. “You’re perfect” she whispers, as she watches his cheeks suck and pull. His perfect face highlighted by the warm glow of the streetlights outside. She could stare at him for hours, still in awe that he is hers. She hadn’t realised just how small he would be. Delicate fingers clustered together in a fist so small it doesn’t seem possible, bouncing off his tight round cheeks and pouting pink lips. His little eyes have not yet opened. “You are just as exhausted as me. It has been a big day for you too.” She whispers while trying to make herself comfortable or at least not uncomfortable. An exhausting and chaotic day for both of them but now in the still of the night she has the space to admire him. They both have the space to get to know each other better. She has cradled him inside her for more than nine months but only now is she getting to see him. She knows the feel of his hands and feet knocking and poking against her, jabbing and pushing at her ribs. She knows the feeling of him tumbling and rolling, stretching her skin to the point of pain. She knows his ghost like figure on the black and white images of the scans from each stage of her pregnancy, from the small kidney bean like image to the ghostly silhouette with dark eyes. Yet, this little face and these hands and feet are totally new to her. She doesn’t know them. She studies each movement he makes. His dry sniffles get taken over by a fast-sucking sound as his fists aggressively hit at his mouth. As his legs start to kick and stretch, the crackle of the wipe clean mattress beneath the cot sheet highlights every squirm his helpless newborn body makes. A silent cry escapes from his open mouth. She shifts and moves herself off the side of the bed. She is aware of the pressure and strain each motion creates on her aching body. The skin around her breasts and nipples tightens, reacting to the hungry sobs and cries that signal to her body that it is needed. Her legs still weak from the trauma of the past twenty-four hours, she slowly stands and steadies herself. “No one warns you about this bit” she thinks to herself. Her breasts hot, solid and full. Sore and heavy, they burn and throb each time her maternity bra moves even the slightest. Her stomach cold and empty. Once a little nest of love and activity, now a hollow void that pulls and weighs at her. Liquid leaks from her as she slowly steps towards his see-through bassinet. Inside she is filled with a new type of unique and unexplainable love, but on the outside, she has no idea what is going on. No amount of pregnancy books could have prepared her for the sensations and emotions she is feeling. Photos of new mums on social media and in newspapers don’t show this side. “How did Princess Diana just stand there, smiling and waving?” She thinks, “How did Kate Middleton look like she had walked off a film set, elegant and so graceful. Delicately waving at gawking journalists like her whole body didn’t feel like it had just been turned inside out. The discomfort hidden so well from the intrusion of flashing cameras”. Catching a glimpse of herself in the dark windows, she was more on the ragged than regal side at this point she thought.

Slowly she slides one hand carefully under his bum. Her palm is welcomed by the warm sensation of a full nappy. She smiles to herself. Never did she think the feeling of a wet nappy would fill her with so much joy, but she knows that means he is eating, getting enough food from her. Her pain validated. With the other hand she softly cradles his head and gently brings his body up to meet hers. She slowly helps guide his scrunched up little body towards her, resting him on her chest. As she feels him push his face into the nape of her neck, she sits back onto the edge of the bed trying to regain some energy. His head bobs and nuzzles down towards her chest. “Let’s change that nappy first” her voice sing song as she kisses the top of his head and carefully steps forward, making her way towards the changing table in the corner of the room. His feeble kitten like cry tells her that he isn’t happy with the decision, but as she frees his kicking legs from the confines of the new sleepsuit, his cries soften. “I might just be gaining your trust” she smiles to herself. She softly rubs at his tiny feet, his skin delicate and smooth against her coarse and already over washed hands. She stares and studies his toes with nails so small it is hard to see if they are actually there. These helpless little feet caused her so much discomfort over the past four months, many a night their jabs in the ribs made her jump out of her sleep, and now here they wriggle and move so innocent and pure.

Her body had become physically unrecognisable to her these past six months, an expanding belly pushing against the waistband of every new pair of jeans she bought and boobs her teenage self could only have dreamed about, yet she still felt comfortable. She still felt like herself although with a bit more caution required when lifting heavy objects or turning corners. Now though, she approached each movement and step with so much caution, not sure of how her flesh or skin would react.

Hugged by a new, dry nappy and clean vest, she carefully lifted him up, placing him gently onto her chest. His breathing getting faster as he unsteadily slid his head across her collar bone and neck, searching for his overdue midnight feed. She hesitantly manoeuvred herself towards the large wingback chair, carefully curating each step so as to not cause any sudden movements that would trigger his hunger into an audible cry. She wanted to get him latched before he became too eager. Gently easing herself onto the donut shaped pillow on the seat, she carefully unbuttoned her nightdress just enough to allow him to feed. She was on her own, but she still didn’t have the confidence to not try to fully cover herself. He settled with ease near her left breast, and she tried to help him feed. Despite the increased push for breastfeeding and ‘the breast is best’ approach being adopted by most hospitals, it just didn’t feel as natural as what she thought it should be.  She had struggled at each feed, and this time was no different. She could feel her breasts throbbing as his little cries began to intensify. Tears slowly pricking at her tired eyes as she moved her position and gently encouraged his open yet impatient mouth. Nose to nipple. It didn’t work. He latched. He unlatched. He latched again but not deep enough so that a hot aching sensation tore through her nipple. She carefully placed her small finger in the corner of his mouth to unlatch him and tried again. Again, it was an unnatural pain. She could feel the tears slowly rolling down her cheeks as his tears puddled in his closed eyes. Trying not to disturb him too much she reached for the call button and gently pressed it. She didn’t want to. She wanted to be able to do this on her own, but she had to put his needs before hers. This was the way her life was going to be from now on. She was independent but for him she would have to ask for help. After ten minutes of talking and working with the lactation nurse, he was feeding. “Don’t worry love, it’s not as easy as people think it should be” she cooed while watching him suck. No part of her had now not been closely looked at and prodded by a medical professional. From the birthing to the feeding, the midwives had seen the private parts of her more than she had seen herself. Yet, it didn’t bother her because he was now feeding, and her smarting breast was feeling some relief. “I will leave you now love. He seems settled but ring the bell if you need me again. At any time”, her reassuring tone was welcome.

The adjustable hospital table beside had been stacked with breast feeding supplies her sister had arranged before leaving. A large bottle of water, a homemade fifteen and a packet of beef hula hoops. “You need to keep your energy levels up and stay hydrated while this little one tries to drain you. The banana is just there is make it look a little healthy” her sister had whispered as she put on her coat the night before. She remembers reading in one of the mountains of baby books that had been handed to her by well-meaning family and friends that breastfeeding would increase her appetite but at the minute her stomach felt like it was still churning from morning sickness. The cold water being the only appealing thing on the table. She carefully propped her phone up and hit play on the audiobook she was listening to. She knew that bonding with baby during the early days was important, but she also needed something to distract her from the silence, her thoughts and the searing pain that pulled at her nipples during those first minutes of suckling. The guilty tone of the baby books authors, scolding at the parents who dare read a book or scroll their phone gnawed at her conscience but the pain in her breasts soon helped her block them out. Her toes curled as his little mouth fought and tugged trying to find its way again before relaxing and settling into a rhythmic pull. He hadn’t quite found his flow yet, and she was battling against the shock of cluster feeding that she doesn’t remember being warned about by any of the perfectly penned mummy to be books. Cracked nipples being sucked on for hours in wait of an established milk supply. Surely that is something she would remember being told. Yet in all the ache and pain, there was something incredibly rewarding in being able to feed her baby. She looked down at him as he suckled and stopped, suckled and stopped; his little eyes rapidly flicking between awake and looking up towards her, and dozing off again. The veins across her breasts blue and thick, her skin prickling with the work her body was naturally doing. As she sat there, in a dimly lit room listening to a quiet murmur of conversations in the corridor outside, she was in awe at her body and what it had done in the past twenty-four hours. If you had asked her how to push and birth a baby, she would not be able to describe it, yet her body done it. Her body had tightened and squeezed, opened and adapted, pulsated and stretched almost to breaking point all so that this little baby could take his first breath. Now here he was, resting in her arms and contently feeding.

She had listened to enough podcasts and doomscrolled plenty of social media videos to know that this feeding journey could end abruptly, at any minute. Right now though, she felt so proud of her body and how this new little life, nestled into her, was always going to be part of her story.