I never realised just how emotional I was going to get about breast milk. 

I remember the obstetrician asking me if I planned to breastfeed, minutes after he had told me I might be having a baby at 26 weeks.  Yes, I replied sadly, assuming it would be impossible to produce milk under the circumstances, not realising that simply parting company with my placenta would trigger changes to the hormones in my body and kick start milk production. 

For three months my life revolved around expressing “liquid gold”, which is a story all in itself.

The lactation consultants in the nursery spent hours helping me to coax my reluctant daughter to suck while encumbered with CPAP and feeding tubes.  Tears flowed freely – more freely than my milk some days!  Naively I had assumed that breastfeeding would be natural and instinctive, but for me it was a struggle.  At the same time, it was one of the few things I could do to help my precious baby grow strong and come home, and so it became more important than anything. 

I felt a great sense of achievement when I was finally able to breastfeed my daughter in the comfort of my own home, and as I relaxed I began to enjoy it more and more.  However my joy and confidence were undermined by the inescapable fact that although my baby was gaining weight, it was only 30-40g per week – well below desirable levels.  I consulted everyone: the breastfeeding centre, a local lactation research group, a string of child health nurses, the internet.  I did everything they suggested to increase supply and improve my feeding technique, but it made no difference.  She looks healthy but over four months my little one has slipped steadily down the growth charts.  Amazingly, every time I queried this with a child health nurse or lactation consultant, they told me not to worry about it because she was doing fine “for a prem”. 

Finally, she fell below the lowest line on the chart and I was forced to confront the reality that as much as I loved her, my milk alone was not enough to keep her going.  There’s no objective reason why it should bother me so much to give my baby formula.  I know it’s an adequate alternative, and for that matter I was formula fed myself.  Why is it so hard to shake the sadness within me, as if I have somehow failed one the most basic jobs of motherhood? 

I am trying to see the positive. Thank goodness for the blessings of the modern age, which enable our children to survive and thrive when our bodies let us down.  And unlike EBM, at least I can tip formula down the sink without any regrets.