What postpartum engorgement taught me about angels
It was 2 a.m., and I had never been so close to a full-blown panic attack before. I woke up to an intense mix of my newborn’s cries and breast pain. My chest was hard as brick, with several parts of it feeling like literal stones in my chest.
I had spent the day with my husband, mom, and sister, so excited about my new milk coming in. I even tested out my new power-pump with the lights, the bells, and whistles.
Image and Art by Sarah Elle, Prose Club © Copyright
Our 72-hour newborn bliss was met with so many people’s awe… and equally as many “just waits.” We remained blissfully ignorant and hopeful that nothing could pop our perfect bubble. Our only concern was if she could meet birth weight before tomorrow’s first doctor appointment and how many wet diapers we could count.
After the high of seeing family, chatting on FaceTime with our relatives, and filling our camera rolls with at least five photos of the same angle, nothing could get us down.
That is, until nightfall.
It hit us like a ton of bricks, literally.
Our peace blew up… as did her diaper… twice.
Hysterically, we laughed as we changed her “sharting” ass in front of us. And we prepared for our nighttime routine as we had for the last few days.
Up until then, it really felt like we nailed the whole night feeds thing. I’d take most of the night shift, with those sacred hours of sleep spent looking her in the eyes and she looking me… in the boobs. I would feed, she would sleep in the bassinet beside me, and come early morning—and anything in between—my husband would help.
But come evening, something changed. Suddenly, the serene little baby we had all day was wailing.
At once, she couldn’t latch anymore.
My husband felt a small tickle in his throat.
And my intrusive thoughts came flooding in.
What if.
In those moments, all the “just waits” felt like darts from the enemy. Other people’s opinions and expectations felt like weapons quickly forming against me.
I couldn’t understand why, after all this blissful breastfeeding, my baby would no longer latch. I’ll be honest, too: I didn’t even turn to ChatGPT. This onset of doom felt more serious than that. Instead, I got on my knees and prayed, started frantically Googling the questions that raced through my mind and YouTubing all sorts of totally non-PG videos to secure a deep enough “latch.”
It then struck our TV screen: “postpartum engorgement.” When your milk comes in for the first time and your body, freshly postpartum with its medley of retentions, fluids, and symptoms, almost doesn’t know what to do with it. So it gets hard, baby’s latch gets more difficult, and all of a sudden, I was launched into completely unknown… and terrifying territory.
Not even the YouTube videos brought me peace. Instead, I pulled out a bottle of formula from the fridge in a panic and started gravity bowling my tits in a salad bowl of warm water. I tried everything the video said to help my baby latch—feeling enormously discouraged and increasingly more panicked.
Would this be what they said awaited us?
The almost imperceptible onset of newborn trenches?
I could write entire pages about the hour between the last YouTube video and when I finally fell back asleep, paralyzed by the idea of breastfeeding again. But for lack of greater detail (I mean, it’s 3 a.m., after all), I prayed, surrendered (more like exasperatedly gave up), and went to sleep.
1:30 strikes, and the baby is growing in that hunger panic. What started as those hunger fell in love with quickly veered into a fever dream. I woke up to what felt like rocks in my boobs. There was no chance on earth she would latch now. The engorgement was too intense. For those who aren’t familiar, aka anyone who is either fresh with child or has never had one before, a massive factor for a shallow latch or trouble latching altogether is when your breasts are too engorged for the baby to fit their mouth around the nipple.
So not only couldn’t I feed her just a few hours ago, but the saga continued… only worse now.
The pain was so intense. Arguably worse than before. Only now, I had mere minutes before the hurls became wails. What was I going to do?
The paralysis was almost instant. I couldn’t figure out what I was going to do about these lumps. I didn’t even know where to start between getting the baby fed and avoiding this encroaching, or rather engorging, pain.
In those very seconds, I felt it all rush at once. The fear. The tears. The onset of what was about to become a very dark panic attack. I couldn’t even think of a step to take. No way forward. Just me, the pain, and a baby whose cries were becoming deafening saxophones.
At that very moment, my only instinct was to call the hospital maternity unit that had made my debut into motherhood a glimpse of heaven. After all, all I could do was plead… “By prayer and supplication” was the only move I could make. I couldn’t even speak; I was so overwhelmed with tears.
I dialed their extension, hoping for any light in what was becoming an all-consuming dark tunnel. But the panic attack had already set in. I was crying almost as loudly as the baby. My poor husband, grasping for any metaphorical straw in the dark. I don’t even think his overtired brain could muster up a word that would ease my tension in the moment. It was either soothe me or soothe the baby, and the newborn whose hunger was getting louder by the second was definitely the only thing that could be tamed.
I dialed twice. Once, landing on the hospital directory—which acted as nothing but a gateway for my ever-escalating dread. And then a second time, after explicitly Googling the maternity ward’s extension number with blurred vision and a racing heart.
4… 1… 0… 9…
“Maternity care. How may I help you?”
“Yes, hi… I gave birth a couple days ago…
I’m sorry, I’m in the middle of a panic attack…
I am so engorged… I literally don’t know what to do…
I’m so scared…
Can you please help me?”
Things were going so smoothly a couple of days ago that when we met with the lactation consultant, I didn’t even have questions. But now… I didn’t even need answers… I needed the voice of God.
And, my words on the page, I heard it.
“It’s okay, honey. I know it’s hard. But I want you to know, this is totally normal.”
Her voice sounded like the choir of heaven. She even sounded like the same nurse who made me laugh a couple days ago when we were in the recovery room. So much as the hope of a familiar voice… or any voice of hope in this all-encompassing dark. She walked me through each step… and by doing so, each breath.
I could finally breathe again. Even the rocks in my chest didn’t feel so crushing anymore. I had to leave the bedroom. I needed to focus on the voice of the angel who was talking to me. Just a few short hours ago (what felt like a blip in time between broken sleeps), I was on my knees praying.
At this very moment, it was answered.
I hung up and finally experienced the first wave of relief. I had clear instructions for how to go forward: pump slowly and manually for fifteen minutes on each side every 2–3 hours. Not for a feed but only to the point of relief (softening of the breast tissue). Use a cold compress or ice pack after feeds. Don’t be afraid. That’s all.
I heard the song of angels in her voice. Soft. Unhurried. Unconsumed by my fear.
And just like that, I had peace and one very simple next step.
“Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.” —Psalm 119:105
Image and Art by Sarah Elle, Prose Club © Copyright
I took it back to exactly the same soft routine I had when pumping colostrum antenatally. I put on The Good Doctor (not ironic at all here), bent over at a 45-degree angle. Very softly massaged the pump area. And prayed.
I had never self-soothed myself this way before. I was consoling myself the same way I soothe my newborn daughter.
But I guess I’m a newborn mother, too.
When my soul finally returned to my body and I could see the dimly lit nightlight at the end of the tunnel. I offered what turned out to be a full feed—and only a third of what I ended up pumping—to my husband so he could feed the baby and I could get my feet back on the ground. He was at peace. I was at peace. The baby was at peace. And I had never pumped so much liquid gold before.
But, it’s safe to say: the real liquid gold was what that woman said to me.
When I finally got back to bed and lay next to my husband, he said something to me that I suspected all along—something… the first thing… I simply couldn’t wait to record and write about:
“That woman probably isn’t even real… You might have just spoken with an angel.”
So here I am… typing these final words at 4 a.m.
A testimony from the trenches of newborn motherhood…
A peace that’s finally more engorged than my boobs.
A happy and well-fed baby.
And about one more hour before I gotta wake up and do it all over again.
Signing off and trying to get some sleep…
Sincerely,
A very engorged postpartum mother.
Image and Art by Sarah Elle, Prose Club © Copyright
P.S. There are already so many drafts in the works. Tips and product recommendations that I simply refuse to live without. So subscribe to keep The PROSE x Mother Lode’s extension number in your speed dial, or just come read any time you’re in a panic at 2 a.m. with clogged postpartum milk ducts.
