The baby had a bad latch (meaning his mouth and jaw weren’t yet perfectly coordinated on my breast), or I had low supply, or he had a bad latch because of my low supply, or I had low supply because of the bad latch. This was not abnormal, we were reassured. Around and around we went.’ Photograph: Dorothy Hong/The GuardianĪt a week-and-a-half old, my baby began to lose weight. I should neither pump nor supplement I should let him get so hungry he would do whatever it took to latch properly. ‘I should use a breast pump every two hours. A deep, overwhelming exhaustion began to take root. The last thing I needed was to be entertaining guests who seemed embarrassed and uncomfortable when I nursed. My home bore little resemblance to the intimate, intensely nurturing bubble I’d witnessed at Miranda’s. I served tea and showed off my newborn and made small talk and acted politely with my guests. I also breastfed around the clock, in increasingly wild pain: engorged and throbbing. In the days that followed, I entertained a parade of well-meaning but exhausting relatives and friends. Having just given birth, I felt omnipotent. One of us just happened to be naked and bleeding, immediately postpartum. She handed me a towel, and I remember commiserating, trying to comfort her about her unfortunate relationship with her family, as though we were two cool girls hanging out in the bathroom at a party.
The midwife perched on the sink and told me a story about her estranged sister. I showered in a state of trembling, happy shock. My husband lay in bed with our new son on his chest. We wept with joy, held him, kissed him, named him. Minutes later, with a great and unbridled roar, I delivered my son into bathwater. It was another three hours before she arrived. The midwife sounded annoyed, vaguely put-upon. From inside the grip of what turned out to be very active labour, I managed to flat-out demand that she join us, speaking at the phone while the doulka held it to my ear. She told us it was “probably” early labour. Throughout, my husband and doula repeatedly called and texted the midwife, whom we had found privately. Frankly, it felt like staring death in the face, by which I mean an altogether normal and intense physiological process that has nothing to do with the ordinariness of daily life. Two weeks later, I gave birth at home, after a 13-hour posterior, or back-to-back, labour, which the long-practising, well-respected midwife did not bother to attend. I entertained a parade of well-meaning relatives and friends in increasingly wild pain.
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