I knew before Ava was born that I wanted to pump and donate our milk. Logan and I were milk donors and I felt very passionately about wanting to do it again. I felt like I had been given such a blessing in the form of an over-abundant milk supply and I wanted to show my gratitude to the universe by giving something back. It never occurred to me that this blessing would become such a burden. 

After Ava died I had an overwhelming need to make sense of what had happened. I needed to find a purpose, a reason for her short life and death. I didn’t want her to be just a baby that died, I wanted her death to mean something. I needed this whole thing to mean something more than the shitty situation that it was and I had hoped to find my meaning in my milk. As soon as I was conscious I decided I would pump for the other NICU babies. There was already a hospital pump in my room in preparation for Ava’s birth so I requested that lactation send me the rest of the supplies I needed. My first day awake I ate a big breakfast, took a quick shower, and then sat myself up in bed and started pumping. After about 20 minutes I carefully transferred a few milliliters of colostrum into a syringe and handed it to Travis. He labeled the syringe and put it in the fridge in my room. Twice a day I would feel at peace, a sense of pride washing over me as I watched my colostrum dripping into the tiny bottles. By the 2nd or 3rd time, I was making twice as much and produced about an ounce every time I pumped. I smiled thinking about the babies Ava and I would help. I felt like this was my purpose, Ava’s purpose, her death would mean something.

For two days I worked on getting in touch with the milk bank. I knew I had to complete paperwork and blood testing prior to becoming an official milk donor and I wanted to get it done quickly. I wanted to leave my milk at the hospital instead of bringing it on the three-hour drive back home just to ship it back to the milk bank in Denver. When I finally got in touch with someone they reminded me of the rules for donation. I needed to commit to donating at least 150 ounces (no problem), and I would need to pump a minimum of four times a day in order for my milk to be eligible. My heart sank. I forgot about the frequency required. Breast milk changes depending on many factors, one of which being frequency of pumping/feeding. If I didn’t pump at least four times a day my milk would “mature” and would not be suitable for the babies that needed it. I was torn. I had already pumped a few ounces of colostrum. People say breast milk is liquid gold but colostrum is only produced by the body for a few days, making it, in my opinion, even more valuable. I doubt many people donate colostrum. I wanted it to go to a baby in need so badly and I didn’t want it to go to waste, but four times a day was excessive. If I was pumping four times a day I would never get over Ava’s death. I would be attached to a pump four times a day. I would be reminded at least four times a day that I didn’t have a baby to feed. It pained me to say it, but I told the milk bank that I couldn’t do it. I stopped pumping before we left the hospital and signed a form giving them permission to use what I had pumped for research. I tried to find solace in the fact that the research would someday help babies too. I wanted Ava’s death to help others but I couldn’t do it at my own expense. I had to choose to be selfish. I had to choose my survival first.

Two days after we returned home my milk really came in. I left the house for the first time to go to the grocery store and I felt like everyone was staring at me. I couldn’t figure out why until I got home and saw the wet circles on my shirt. This was hands down the biggest insult after losing my baby. Ava had died but my body didn’t know it, and pumping in the hospital certainly didn’t help get the message across. The first days were the worst. My breasts were so full they felt like bad implants. They were rock solid and I was genuinely scared they were going to explode out of my skin. I put cold cabbage leaves in my bra and they would quickly wilt leaving me smelling like soup in a nursing home. When I showered the milk would flow freely, running down my stomach and legs, as if my body was weeping for my daughter. I watched the milk swirling down the drain and I cried too. It felt like such a waste. It felt like I was denying a precious gift to so many other babies. I felt selfish and ashamed. I constantly thought about pumping and telling the milk bank that I’d changed my mind, but I couldn’t do it, I had to focus on myself. Unfortunately, my body never got the message.

Eventually, the pain subsided, but the milk never did. I leaked for months. I had to wear nursing pads all the time, even when I went to sleep. My body just wouldn’t let her go. Until a few weeks ago. A few weeks ago I took Logan to his first day of “school,” went back to work, and started exercising again, and all in the same day. I started taking care of myself and I started to feel some sense of normalcy. That day I started to feel like I was coming to life again. At the end of that day I took off my bra and was shocked to discover it was dry. It was like a flip had been switched in my brain giving me permission to get back to life and to actually live, and as if in agreeance with my mind, my body gave me permission too. That night, for the first time in almost two years, my breastmilk was gone. It was bittersweet. My milk felt like one of my last physical connections to my daughter and I was sad to see it go but at the same time, it was liberating. My breastmilk was a regular and painful reminder of Ava’s death but my body seems to have finally gotten the message, Ava isn’t here and she doesn’t need my milk, it is time to stop. It is time to move forward.

Sometimes I still see a random drop or two of milk at the end of the day. And if I’m being totally honest, sometimes I’ll squeeze my nipple just to see if anything will come out, just to see if my body still remembers Ava, and most of the time it does. Now that I’m not leaking all the time and my breasts aren’t engorged, I take some small, strange comfort in the milk when I see it, it makes me feel like Ava is still a part of me. Even though my life has continued to move forward a piece of me will always be stuck in that brief moment of time with her, but now it feels more like it is on my terms. I am no longer drowning in milk, I am no longer drowning in grief. Life will continue to move forward but my reminder of Ava is there when I need it, until hopefully, one day, I’ll be able to let it go too.