The First Donation

Oddly enough, my first donation wasn’t the hardest. Perhaps we were still in shock.. The emotional pain of pumping would come much later on, after the funeral, when we were back home. It was in the silence of our room that I would question my ability to push through with our promise. But on the first 3 days, it was a routine and a goal that diverted our attention temporarily.

Actually, I’m not even sure if the first “bag” was brought to the NICU. It was around 3AM when I handed it to the nurse and asked her to bring it there, but only God knows if it got there since I didn’t inform my doctors that I was donating. So no one expected anything from me at that point.

I remember the first time I pumped, so vividly, because it was the first time I was awake and lucid, without anyone to talk to.  It was the night Kat passed away,.  The past 24 hours before that, I was in and out from the anesthesia. I was nauseous when I was awake, but very aware every time J would come back with photos and videos of Kat.  But her death was timed with the withdrawal of the anesthesia, and it shook me wide-awake. My family had gone home to make funeral and wake arrangements.

I knew I would be unable to sleep that night. I let J sleep, because he had been up for almost 3 nights in a row already (2 from working a fully booked weekend, 1 from watching over Kat).  I knew it was adrenaline that kept him on his feet in the hospital, and I didn’t want to bother him. But I was restless,  and didn’t know what to do with myself.

So I made my way to my things and unpacked the pump and other paraphernalia. I had cleaned and sanitized them at home, so they were good to go.  I just washed it again with hot water in the bathroom. What else was there to do anyways? Might as well check if there was milk already. After a few minutes of figuring out how to do it (this was my first time to work with an electric pump), it got going. I pumped about 1/4 an ounce of very yellow milk (colostrum-rich), and buzzed for the nurse to come get it and bring it to the NICU. Haha, I even took a picture because it was the first time I've seen colostrum milk.

Literally just a few drops.

Like robots, this would be our routine in the hospital for our remaining stay. When J woke up, he would be the one to fix the accessories and clean everything, and bring the milk to the nurses’ station. It would be my reason for getting up, for waking, for eating, for talking. In two weeks time I was able to pump 20-30 oz a day. In case you're wondering why it was so much, when usually its a lot less in the first month, I had no sense of supply and demand. All I knew was, it had to be every 2-3 hours. Without a baby to signal me to stop, I just kept going and going. The amount became a lot less when I went back to work full time. 

I think the first few donations were more for J and me, than for anyone else. Though I could not stop crying, there was a time frame and routine that kept pushing me forward. You know, you need these things when your body and mind are programmed to anticipate caring for a baby. It’s really a brutal thing, to give birth and to come home empty-handed.  But donating the milk, measuring, cleaning the bottles, buying the equipment and parts online --- that was a “something”, that was better than completely nothing.  If not our own, there was another baby to think about, and there was some comfort in that.

If you are reading this, and you have just lost your baby, for any reason (stillbirth, SIDS, congenital defect, meconium staining) and you already have an electric pump prepared, I suggest you give donating a try. Although it will be difficult, especially if your baby died unexpectedly, you might want to give it a shot when your milk comes in. If it makes you feel worse after a few tries, by all means, stop. Nobody should pressure you, and you should not pressure yourself, to start doing something that makes the trauma worse. But if you feel that it gives you a purpose, this is a wonderful tribute to your angel in heaven. It gives tangibility to the intangible, which is what most bereaved parents struggle with.