How I Stayed in America (Part 15)

— Where is the prince?

I am not sure why I did not like my child at first. Probably, I was in a    state of apathy due to  serious medications. I suspect cesareans involve   a killer dose of opiates and other crap. Spinal anesthesia gives me a terrible shaking and hypertensive crisis. In other words, I was not myself.

After sleeping for several hours after the operation, I was offered to breastfeed. This is how my boob fight began. After giving birth, I was extremely swollen. I was like a shapeless animal, aiming to feed a child. My son, despite the difficult childbirth and lack of oxygen, passed Apgar perfectly, which made me incredibly content.

By the end of the first day, I was already walking around the ward. It is a common practice in America to ask to get up and take a few steps after 8 o’clock. The times, when women in labor used to lay in the hospital for a week, had passed. Thus, I ended up at home within 48 hours after giving birth.

My son was very reluctant towards breastfeeding. It was difficult for   him. Nevertheless, the milk was still there. I can’t say that there was a lot of it, but mastitis started on the fifth day. The chest hardened and hurt like hell, and I had a fever. At night, I called Macy, who prescribed antibiotics and suggested to stand in a hot shower and knead the   breasts before taking any medicine. It was funny: my dad and husband stood with me in the shower and kneaded my chest in four hands. If not for family ties, this picture could look like a prelude to hardcore porn.

After 24 hours, the antibiotics kicked in, and the mastitis was gone. I continued to prepare for feedings in a hot shower. Furthermore, I kept pumping milk and storing it in the fridge for later. There was a feeling that it would end quickly. The happiness did not last long, because as soon as I felt a relief, I stopped taking antibiotics. And I paid for it. It is no coincidence that all the pill boxes always state that the medicine must   be taken for the entire course, even if relief has come earlier.

Nevertheless, I was a stupid Russian chicken back then, who thought she knew everything. In fact, I believed that antibiotics were evil and would negatively affect my child. In the end, my stupidity did nothing but harm.

Mastitis was back again, as strong as it was before. The feeding turned into endless sobbing. I had to include a special mixture and feed the  baby with a bottle. Everyone knows that as soon as a baby is offered a bottle, he chooses it (especially if there is mother’s milk), because breast

sucking is much more difficult than a pacifier. Despite it though, I still fed for a couple of months, and one day my milk simply did not come anymore. By the way, I was drinking tea with milk like a madman — according to my mother, it was a proven option to stimulate the production of natural milk. Let me stop you right here, because I know you might think there are more effective ways to stimulate milk production. Surely, but this is my story from the past…

Also, if someone is expecting a story about the happiness deriving from motherhood, then I am sorry to upset my reader, but I did not have a feeling that I was ready to be a mother. Nor did I have a feeling that my program was completed. It seemed like this all was some sort of enticement. I think that I was satisfied by the fact that I could still give birth, but I felt fully like a mother only years later.

Little Fedor was my best teacher. Not knowing what it was like to be a mother, it was a real challenge for me. I think most mothers would understand what I mean.