The First Hurdle
January 2021
Taishan’s birth was like completing a marathon then realizing I’m actually in an Iron Man Triathlon in reverse. I trained for months and mentally prepared for the race, which I barely survived, but I made it to the finish line! Before I can even savor a deep breath or a sip of water, I’m told that I still have to bike for 112 miles and swim 2.4 miles. I don't know how to swim, and I don't have a bicycle.
The only way I made it through such a stressful and prolonged pregnancy and birthing journey, was the naive fantasy that once Taishan arrived, I would finally get to relax. This illusion was painfully shattered when the midwives methodically packed up their gear and Maya’s mom and sister went home to finally get some sleep. Suddenly, we were alone with an infant. What do we do now?
When Taishan was in the womb, I imagined idyllic scenes of cradling him on my bare chest and marveling at the miracle of creation. There were a few fleeting moments where this vision materialized, but they were tiny islands within a vast ocean of exhaustion and despair.
The first night after the birth, the three of us lay together, in the cozy confines of a queen sized bed. Despite already being awake for 3 days in a row, I did not sleep for one minute. Adrenaline was continuing to course through my body from the intensity of the birth, and I could not convince my nervous system to transition out of fight or flight mode. To ensure he was breathing, I stared at Taishan’s face with the vigilance of a Swiss Guard protecting the Vatican. I was convinced that my slightest movement would wake him, and if I fell asleep I would roll over and accidentally suffocate him. So, I lay motionless, beholding this tiny human who was now under my care, imbibing a disorienting cocktail of wonder and terror.
Maya was physically disabled from the birthing experience. She was under strict orders from the midwives not to leave the bed for any reason other than going to the bathroom. For the first few days she had to pee on an hourly basis, including through the night, and I was her human crutch for each round trip visit to the toilet. Our lives became reduced to the satisfaction of our basic biological necessities. There was no victory lap after the birth, just a harsh transition into my new job of keeping my wife and child alive. I read several books on the matter, and they all felt woefully inadequate now that I was holding Taishan in my arms. It was like reading about mountain climbing, then finding myself at Mount Everest base camp with no guide and no actual climbing experience.
No book ever told me to strengthen my wrists so I could shove my wife’s breast into my son’s mouth and hold it there indefinitely. I imagined that Taishan would glide out of the birth canal, slither his way to the nipple and instinctively begin feeding like a piglet, squealing with delight. In reality, every time we tried to feed him he flailed his limbs and screamed hysterically, unable to latch onto the nipple. I feared that we would have to give up on breastfeeding, which all the parenting books insisted was optimal for the health of the baby, a prospect that my overachieving, perfectionist self could not stomach.
Our midwife Paula visited us every day, guiding Taishan through a latch training program. After several days without any progress, we followed her recommendation to feed him by syringe, something else that no book prepared me for. We used a breast pump to suction a few drops of colostrum out of Maya’s nipple, which I then loaded cautiously into a plastic syringe. I handled Taishan’s mouth like a ripe nectarine and squeezed until his mouth popped open ever so slightly. Then my other hand slowly depressed the syringe, hoping that some drops of white gold would find their way to the back of his throat, ensuring that he would receive enough sustenance to avoid becoming dehydrated.
We attempted every possible nursing position, and I spent my spare time watching breastfeeding tutorial videos on YouTube. Nothing worked. For days, Taishan could only access nourishment through hard drug paraphernalia. Finally, Paula dug deep into her toolbox of midwife wizardry and sent me on a mission to buy silicone nipple shields, yet another task that was omitted from the parenting books.
I returned home with the shields, which were thankfully closer to the size of a child’s tea saucer than the medieval shields I envisioned. Maya delicately positioned them over her nipples, and we followed my favorite YouTube video by holding Taishan in the “football player position,” wedged in between Maya’s right arm and ribcage, with his feet sticking out behind her. The clouds parted. A beam of sunshine illuminated his head. He latched successfully for the first time! The house erupted in raucous applause as Taishan slurped his nectar through a narrow opening at the tip of a silicon wafer.
Repeating this triumphant moment became the focal point of our existence for the next few weeks. Around the clock, at least once every two hours, we reenacted our discouragingly complex ritual:
Step 1: boil water to heat the silicon nipple shield to body temperature so it would adhere to the skin.
Step 2: arrange a precise array of pillows around Maya as she sits upright in bed
Step 3: carefully insert Taishan between Maya and her fluffy fortress
Step 4: when Taishan isn’t able to hold the nipple in his mouth (which is the case in the majority of our attempts), hold Maya’s breast in his mouth for the duration of the feeding, which could last 45 minutes!
After each feeding, my wrists felt like I’d hand scribed the Oxford dictionary.
Many times, our elaborate system still failed. Taishan wouldn’t latch and circled the boob with his open mouth like a dizzy drunk who can’t decide if he is going to fall down or not. This is when Paula instructed me to force feed the breast to my son. As someone who has tried to abide by a culture of consent, this was a troubling solution. I reluctantly straddled the mountain of pillows, careful not to crush Maya or Taishan. In my left hand, I squeezed Maya’s breast to make it look like a hamburger. (This is literally what Paula instructed me to do). Then, using my right fingers to gently open Taishan’s jaw, I smashed his little lips onto the nipple and held him firmly in place. Usually, this whole ordeal left everyone in tears without one drop of breastmilk entering Taishan’s body. The few times that it worked were enough to keep us motivated to stay on the nursing train, even though it seemed like we hadn't even left the station.
We became so fatigued and demoralized from the whole process that we wondered if Taishan would ever nurse unassisted. Visions of a robust immune system for our firstborn child and a staggering amount of stubborn determination kept us on the path. After a month of misery, we reached the promised land. The first time he latched onto the boob and kept it in his mouth without support was more joyous than the birth itself. Now, the only support needed was a breast dangling in front of his face. We had staggered over our first major hurdle in the task of keeping Taishan alive. Our reward was a momentary sense of relief and the illusion that our most trying times were now behind us. I had no idea how much more daunting the impending hurdles would become.
~
For a musical journey about humility, click the image below to listen to ‘The Jungle.’
“Its like a jungle sometimes i have to wonder,
why illumination’s followed by the crack of thunder
I have epiphanies sometimes I’m badly smothered
still listening, for what i can discover
The path is covered, in ivy and moss
I’m climbing over obstacles no sliding across
Praying for a sign not trying to get loss
I hear a rhythm in my mind but the timing is off”