My Doctor Dismissed My Postpartum Breast Pain. I Ended Up In The Operating Room.

I had heard that breastfeeding could be hard. Sure, lots of things are hard, I thought. Delivering a baby was hard. Wordle can be hard. But until I was experiencing it, I truly had no idea just how hard breastfeeding could be. My story is a unique one — most breastfeeding moms don’t end up in the OR — but embedded in it is a universal message that all moms should hear: Trust your gut. You’ve heard it before, but I’m saying it again because it’s not always easy to do. And it’s especially difficult postpartum, when your body has become one you may not recognize.

After having my son, I knew something was wrong. My OB was my guide throughout my pregnancy, but once she delivered my baby, I felt she was no longer interested in my care. Every time I reached out for help, her curt answers made me feel I was an inconvenience. I’m inherently a people pleaser, so I didn’t push the issue. I regret that now. As I look down at the gash in my breast that looks like a sabertooth tiger attacked me, I wish I had been my own advocate.

How did this all begin? I was, in a sense, one of the lucky ones. My milk supply came in immediately, and I was producing a lot of milk. So much so that one lactation consultant referred to me as a “dairy queen.” My baby had ample food. He was latching well, even though the pain of his latch in those initial weeks literally made my whole body clench. I experienced cracked nipples that would make me gasp with just a brush against my bath towel. Yet this all was “normal” in those early stages of getting acquainted with breastfeeding.

Three weeks postpartum, I reached out to my OB to check in because I was experiencing a burning sensation in my breasts after I fed my son. I didn’t have a fever, so her response was basically, “No fever, no infection, no, you can not come into my office.” A few days later, I developed a sizable lump in my breast.

According to the lactation consultant (and the internet), it was a clogged milk duct. Pretty common for dairy queens like me. Many mothers I knew had experienced clogged ducts in the past as well. Everyone had advice on the myriad ways to treat the clog, which was important so that it didn’t progress to mastitis — a painful breast infection typically accompanied by flu-like symptoms.

To this day, it’s still unclear to me if I had mastitis (I think I did), but what is clear is if I had gotten to my doctor sooner and begun antibiotics, it would never have gone this far.

I got to work trying all the things. I used hot compresses. I massaged the lump with a little device that looked like a vibrator. I had my husband use his strength to massage it as well. I took a warm bath with Epsom salt and milked myself until the water was milky white. I purchased sunflower lecithin. I even stood over my son, on all fours, with my breast dangling in his mouth. My husband walked in on that one, and I’m sure that’s an image he wishes he could unsee.

Then, the lactation consultant I was working with informed me that all that previous advice was no longer valid; the Academy of Breastfeeding Medicine’s guidelines on treating a clogged duct and mastitis had been revised last year. Heat was out; ice was in. Light massage was the way to go. Confusing much? So, I tried all that, too. All to no avail.

Everything I read said the clogged duct should clear up in 24-48 hours. Yet days passed. Painful days where the lump grew bigger, got sorer, and I experienced shooting pains in my breast in the middle of the night. I kept trying to treat it, fearful of the dreaded mastitis. I asked my OB again to see me. How could this still be a clogged duct? It had been 10 long days. But without a fever and the redness of the breast — the typical mastitis signs — my doctor said she couldn’t help me.

A few more torturous and tearful days went by. It hurt to hold my son, but I persevered because… motherhood. While I never had a fever, I did get the chills at night. I often woke in a cold sweat, which I attributed to postpartum hormones. My lactation consultant suggested I contact my OB again for an ultrasound of the lump. And while I’d like to say I was the one who demanded to see her, it was actually my husband who sent the harsh email at 4 a.m. one night as I lay in bed, crying in agony. Finally, I had an appointment.

The ultrasound revealed that I had a breast abscess, likely the result of a mastitis complication. To this day, it’s still unclear to me if I had mastitis (I think I did), but what is clear is if I had gotten to my doctor sooner and begun antibiotics, it would never have gone this far.

An abscess is an isolated area of infection with a walled-off collection of pus. My OB put me on antibiotics and, as if it was no big deal, sent me off to an oncologist to take over. If you’re a new mom, you know getting out of the house is no easy feat. But here I was, for the next month, traveling close to an hour each way (thank you, LA traffic) to see an oncologist. She, too, used an ultrasound to look at the abscess. She pointed out on the screen the areas of pus from the infection that needed to be drained.

I know childbirth was more painful, but at that moment, I convinced myself this was worse. The doctor performed a needle aspiration in which she used a very large needle to suck out as much pus as she could. Tears poured out of the corners of my eyes as I grasped the nurse’s hand. Afterward, the doctor said she felt she got a good amount of pus out of there. The hope was that now, with continual breastfeeding every two to three hours, some warm compresses, and finishing up the antibiotics, I’d be in the clear. I expected to feel a massive sense of physical relief, but sadly, that wasn’t the case. My pain continued.

The bacteria I had was resistant to the first set of antibiotics. My breast turned red. Back to the oncologist I went. We took a stab — literally — at another needle aspiration. Another round of antibiotics.

While the lump in my breast felt smaller, it was still present. But when I returned for a check-up, the oncologist was happy with how things looked. The area, which they marked off with a hard-to-remove marker, was definitely less red. I didn’t need a needle aspiration. Was this finally over?

Two days later, as I finished my second round of antibiotics, the lump grew again. My breast was redder than it had ever been. Oh, and those chills? I had them throughout this entire experience.

At this point, the oncologist told me I needed surgery — a possibility we’d actively been trying to prevent. But the infection had again persisted, and she wanted to get me in to operate ASAP. She was going to give me yet another type of antibiotic called doxycycline. With these antibiotics, I would need to stop breastfeeding immediately because they are deemed unsafe for infants. Before prescribing those, she gave me the option of a different antibiotic to take over the next two days (this is round three if you’re keeping count) that was safe for breastfeeding so that I could have a bit of time to get things figured out for feeding my son.

That weekend, I scrambled to research the best formulas and stock up on bottles. While breastfeeding had led to countless tears and pain, tears streamed down my face while I breastfed my son the next morning as I thought about saying goodbye to these special moments. Like an iPhone Memories montage, my mind replayed all the lovely little moments of breastfeeding: my son’s adorable milk-drunk expressions and his post-feeding contact naps. I was simultaneously sad to give this up yet relieved the decision was being made for me.

The surgery was an outpatient procedure. The oncologist later explained she had to go deep into my breast to remove all of the pus. She then cleaned it out and flushed it with antibiotics. She left a drain in my breast to let the pus and other gunk continue to come out. As someone who once passed out when a teacher merely drew a needle on the board, I’m glad I couldn’t see the drain. My breast was completely bandaged, and they gave me a velcro bra to wear. They also prescribed me more antibiotics (round four, the doxycycline) and some painkillers.

I had to pump and dump every four hours after surgery. They say not to cry over spilled milk, but what about the dumped kind? My breast felt sore, and I still had moments of shooting pains. I was terrified to hold my son in fear of him hitting my breast, and I felt a bit helpless whenever he cried.

I don’t really care if that mark remains on my body. It’s a reminder of just how much I went through and endured in my early days of motherhood.

At my follow-up appointment two days later, the doctor removed the bandaging she had put over my breast and took out the drain. I didn’t look, but my husband said it was like a magician pulling a silk scarf from his sleeve. That’s how deep the drain went.

My follow-up care was simple: shower with the hot water running over the incision and then use gauze and medical tape to cover it. That night, I held my breath and took off the bandage to see the incision. I immediately burst into tears. (Sensing a theme here?) It looked like someone had stabbed me with a knife. From then on, I tried to keep my head straight and not look down at it.

I was initially told that I would have to stop breastfeeding fully. After the surgery, the oncologist said that since my incision was at the top of my breast, I could resume once I was finished with the antibiotics. For the next week, I went back and forth, weighing the decision. Then, I felt a small lump at the bottom of that same breast. My heart started racing, and my anxiety kicked into full gear. Luckily, this part of the story is short — I followed the current guidelines, and with some ice and light massage, it went away in two days. However, I knew I couldn’t handle that fear that overtook me going forward.

My son isn’t a picky eater; he immediately took to the bottle and the formula. As the days went on without breastfeeding, I realized I didn’t feel any less connected to him. Instead of feeling guilty that I was now choosing to stop breastfeeding, I felt proud that I persevered for seven long weeks.

My incision is healing and scabbing over, and it is less terrifying to look at. I’ll use scar tape to try and prevent a scar; however, I don’t really care if that mark remains on my body. It’s a reminder of just how much I went through and endured in my early days of motherhood.