I'm almost 50 and don't know what a vagina actually looks like. My experience is limited to exiting but never entering one. I couldn't draw the shape of it to save my life. The vagina I just quickly sketched on a pad next to my computer as I'm writing this looks like the bottom half of the mask the killer wore in 'Scream'. It shows how amazingly little I, being a childless, gay, male, know about a woman's body. I'm realizing this now because so many of my female co-workers who I'm close with at the hospital are having babies, and I've been shocked to find out things that happen to their bodies that make being new mothers even more difficult than I thought.
I used to be jealous of all the women taking maternity leave. It sounded like they were going on a half- year long "Spring Break" of leisure time and long lunches with friends. As a gay man it wasn't fair. I didn't get one day off when I got my first dog Bronski as a puppy or when his son Mack was born. I thought I was missing out on all the fun, stuck at work while each one of them took their " leave". Now that I have heard the truth I want to personally apologize to all of them, and I want to Thank God for not giving me a vagina and breasts.
First of all, the word "leave" is totally misleading. A new mother is not 'leaving' work, she's 'arriving' at her new job in a brutal sweatshop that only allows her a few hours of sleep a day with a new cranky, demanding boss who is yelling at her the entire time no matter how hard she's working, and who takes too many bathroom breaks but allows her hardly any. The boss and she speak different languages and she desperately tries to learn how to understand the boss so she won't be screamed at as much for not knowing what the boss wants of her. She feels abused but there's no HR office to complain to. There is way too much focus on her breasts by the boss who is truly obsessed with them and won't let her keep her shirt or bra on for a good part of the day. If that's not bad enough, this new boss has sole rights to her breasts and feasts at will, clamping down then latching on and gnawing her nipples multiple times a day as mercilessly and as greedily as Exxon, sucking as much as possible out of her. She has to allow this though, or else her bloated breasts are going to blow like oil rigs at critical mass.
One of my favorite people in the world, Ali, is the latest co-worker to give birth. She said that when she came home from the hospital her boobs were as hard as marble. The only thing that helped with the swelling and pain was putting frozen cabbage leaves on them. None of her bras were big enough or strong enough so she had to walk around her apartment holding up her boobs topped with cabbage using her hands as platters underneath, looking like a waitress carrying two huge hors d'oeuvres. Luckily, the really bad swelling only lasted a few days and she was able to stop using the cabbage, which was starting to make her smell like compost. Another co-worker who chooses to remain anonymous helped decrease her swelling by bobbing her boobs in ice cold water using the same big tin basin she used on Halloween to bob for apples.
After hearing so many stories about the Purgatory of breast feeding, I started to wonder if my mother had gone through the same thing. There was no way she did. I know this for the simple fact that if my mother had gone through all that pain and effort, she would have certainly thrown it in my face and used it against me, like she's told me for the past 40 years about how she slept over in my hospital room the night I had an eye operation when I was 9 years old.
My mother, Priscilla, a woman who couldn't learn to sew a button or remember how to tie my shoelaces in a double- knot, was so inept her entire adult life that she couldn't possibly have mastered the simple art of breastfeeding. She did what all the other modern mothers did --went to the obstetrician's office for the hormone injection then went to the Supermarket for Baby Formula. It was a big enough challenge for my mother to heat up my bottle without scalding me. She needed everything spelled out as easy as possible for her not to do it wrong.
One of my favorite people in the world, Ali, is the latest co-worker to give birth. She said that when she came home from the hospital her boobs were as hard as marble. The only thing that helped with the swelling and pain was putting frozen cabbage leaves on them. None of her bras were big enough or strong enough so she had to walk around her apartment holding up her boobs topped with cabbage using her hands as platters underneath, looking like a waitress carrying two huge hors d'oeuvres. Luckily, the really bad swelling only lasted a few days and she was able to stop using the cabbage, which was starting to make her smell like compost. Another co-worker who chooses to remain anonymous helped decrease her swelling by bobbing her boobs in ice cold water using the same big tin basin she used on Halloween to bob for apples.
After hearing so many stories about the Purgatory of breast feeding, I started to wonder if my mother had gone through the same thing. There was no way she did. I know this for the simple fact that if my mother had gone through all that pain and effort, she would have certainly thrown it in my face and used it against me, like she's told me for the past 40 years about how she slept over in my hospital room the night I had an eye operation when I was 9 years old.
My mother, Priscilla, a woman who couldn't learn to sew a button or remember how to tie my shoelaces in a double- knot, was so inept her entire adult life that she couldn't possibly have mastered the simple art of breastfeeding. She did what all the other modern mothers did --went to the obstetrician's office for the hormone injection then went to the Supermarket for Baby Formula. It was a big enough challenge for my mother to heat up my bottle without scalding me. She needed everything spelled out as easy as possible for her not to do it wrong.
My mother didn't have the self-confidence or the determination of the 30 women I work with now in the Rehab department. These women are the sharpest, most dedicated, hard-working, in-control people I know. They are all younger than me but I will never be as mature as anyone of them. Not only do these women give people back their lives after having strokes, brain injuries, amputations, and spinal surgeries, most of them either run marathons, swim in the Bay, rock climb, bungee jump, mountain bike, ride horses, dive out of planes, kayak, go white water rafting , kick box, walk miles for breast cancer, hike in the forest, or camp near bears. Anything they do, they do perfectly, which is what happens when you're born on the island Wonder Woman came from. ( By the way, Alex told me that the Island was named Themascara, which if he is right, makes him the gayest person in the world).
The new modern mother, who is the opposite of the old modern mother, has gone back to breast-feeding. The new mothers at work think Baby Formula is as good for an infant as Asbestos. You might as well give your baby thumbtacks to play with and breathe smoke in it's face.
Dolores, who is another one of my favorite co-workers, is on the small side and was the only new mother who couldn't produce enough milk by feeding or pumping. She felt terrible and cried more than a few times over it, but after going to several lactation consultants, she still ended up having to use Formula for her baby girl. It isn't free like breast milk, but at least she saved a few hundred dollars on the breast pump equipment all the other new mothers had to buy.
The whole subject of the breast-pump is fascinating and mysterious to me. I had no idea that a new mother MUST pump her breasts on a timed schedule, even if she isn't around her baby. For those of you who don't know this, if she doesn't get 'milked' by a baby or a machine, besides the pain that comes from being so engorged, her breasts will actually stop producing milk, shutting down the farm for good. This could be a disaster for a mother who wants her baby to be raised only on breast milk for the first year. That's why women go to extraordinary lengths to pump no matter where they are.
If you ask, almost every mother who has breastfed will tell you a crazy pumping story. The best 'emergency pumping' stories I've recently heard have happened in a stuck elevator during a blackout, on the 'It's A Small World After All' ride at Disneyland with a woman using Musketeer hats to cover her boobs, standing in line for Sheryl Crow tickets, and to a woman who had a Sky Marshall pull a gun on her after she came out of an airplane bathroom because some passengers thought her pump was a bomb.
Whenever a mother returns to our department from maternity leave, she arrives with an extra satchel or knapsack that she didn't have six months earlier. Inside is her trusty pump which is more important to remember than even her wallet or keys. Being in a profession dominated by women, there is a shared understanding of the importance of breast pumping and a lot of leeway is given to the new 'pumpers'. Pumping time is scheduled into patient care hours and the 'pumping room' is reserved for them in advance. It has turned into kind of a rite of passage in our department. The 'pumping room' is just an ordinary treatment room with a lock on the door, but when it is being used for breast pumping, it becomes a mysterious sanctuary. No one would show me how the pump worked on them, or what they looked like with it attached. Even my Gay Card didn't get me inside.
I ended up having to go on-line to watch a headless stranger breast pump, just so I could finally understand how it worked. It was certainly not as glamorous as one would hope. As a matter of fact, it must have been designed to be especially not sexy. The 'bra' was a matronly, medical-looking, elastic beige breast harness. The suction cones looked like small versions of oxygen masks that jet fighter pilots wear, and clipped onto them were mini plastic milk bottles that could have come from a PLAYSKOOL kitchen set.
Ali came back to work this weekend armed with her pump, ready to enter the magical world of the 'pumping room'. Just as she was about to close the door I came up to her and demanded that as her daughter's unofficial uncle I be allowed to see her pump her breasts. " Just at least one time. Just one pump," I begged.
She rolled her eyes and closed the door in my face, and made sure it was locked after.
" I'll give you a hundred dollars!,"I called through the door. " How about 150?!"
She ignored me of course, but I will not give up that easily. Plan B will be to hire a locksmith and make a copy of the key, or Plan C which is to install a two-way mirror in the room. I even have a Plan D, which is just to pull the fire alarm while she's in there so she'll have to run out with the pump still attached.
Dolores, who is another one of my favorite co-workers, is on the small side and was the only new mother who couldn't produce enough milk by feeding or pumping. She felt terrible and cried more than a few times over it, but after going to several lactation consultants, she still ended up having to use Formula for her baby girl. It isn't free like breast milk, but at least she saved a few hundred dollars on the breast pump equipment all the other new mothers had to buy.
The whole subject of the breast-pump is fascinating and mysterious to me. I had no idea that a new mother MUST pump her breasts on a timed schedule, even if she isn't around her baby. For those of you who don't know this, if she doesn't get 'milked' by a baby or a machine, besides the pain that comes from being so engorged, her breasts will actually stop producing milk, shutting down the farm for good. This could be a disaster for a mother who wants her baby to be raised only on breast milk for the first year. That's why women go to extraordinary lengths to pump no matter where they are.
If you ask, almost every mother who has breastfed will tell you a crazy pumping story. The best 'emergency pumping' stories I've recently heard have happened in a stuck elevator during a blackout, on the 'It's A Small World After All' ride at Disneyland with a woman using Musketeer hats to cover her boobs, standing in line for Sheryl Crow tickets, and to a woman who had a Sky Marshall pull a gun on her after she came out of an airplane bathroom because some passengers thought her pump was a bomb.
Whenever a mother returns to our department from maternity leave, she arrives with an extra satchel or knapsack that she didn't have six months earlier. Inside is her trusty pump which is more important to remember than even her wallet or keys. Being in a profession dominated by women, there is a shared understanding of the importance of breast pumping and a lot of leeway is given to the new 'pumpers'. Pumping time is scheduled into patient care hours and the 'pumping room' is reserved for them in advance. It has turned into kind of a rite of passage in our department. The 'pumping room' is just an ordinary treatment room with a lock on the door, but when it is being used for breast pumping, it becomes a mysterious sanctuary. No one would show me how the pump worked on them, or what they looked like with it attached. Even my Gay Card didn't get me inside.
I ended up having to go on-line to watch a headless stranger breast pump, just so I could finally understand how it worked. It was certainly not as glamorous as one would hope. As a matter of fact, it must have been designed to be especially not sexy. The 'bra' was a matronly, medical-looking, elastic beige breast harness. The suction cones looked like small versions of oxygen masks that jet fighter pilots wear, and clipped onto them were mini plastic milk bottles that could have come from a PLAYSKOOL kitchen set.
Ali came back to work this weekend armed with her pump, ready to enter the magical world of the 'pumping room'. Just as she was about to close the door I came up to her and demanded that as her daughter's unofficial uncle I be allowed to see her pump her breasts. " Just at least one time. Just one pump," I begged.
She rolled her eyes and closed the door in my face, and made sure it was locked after.
" I'll give you a hundred dollars!,"I called through the door. " How about 150?!"
She ignored me of course, but I will not give up that easily. Plan B will be to hire a locksmith and make a copy of the key, or Plan C which is to install a two-way mirror in the room. I even have a Plan D, which is just to pull the fire alarm while she's in there so she'll have to run out with the pump still attached.
What is my obsession, you ask? I just hate not being part of something that everyone around me is doing, especially when Ali is doing it too. It made me wonder how Dolores was dealing with seeing all the pumpers on parade as they came in and out of the pumping room.
" Does it still make you feel bad?" I asked Dolores as, Juliet, another freshly pumped co-worker, came out of the room and headed to the employee refrigerator where they all stored the mini-milk bottles until the end of the day.
She shook her head and looked down to hide her smile. " I'm so glad I don't have to go through all of this. All that pain and all that pumping must suck. I know everyone felt so bad for me, and how bad I felt about it too, but after seeing what they all have to go through, I feel like I'm the lucky one. I feel guilty how much easier The Baby Formula makes everything. I love using it now. Everyone warned me that it wasn't good and the baby wouldn't be as healthy and adjusted but she's fine. It really didn't make a big difference. She acts like all the other babies who are breastfeeding. There's nothing different about her. If the Formula wasn't good for her, I would know already."
" You're absolutely right. Look at me. I'm living proof. I grew up on Formula and see how I turned out."
All of the sudden she stopped smiling and started to cry.
" Does it still make you feel bad?" I asked Dolores as, Juliet, another freshly pumped co-worker, came out of the room and headed to the employee refrigerator where they all stored the mini-milk bottles until the end of the day.
She shook her head and looked down to hide her smile. " I'm so glad I don't have to go through all of this. All that pain and all that pumping must suck. I know everyone felt so bad for me, and how bad I felt about it too, but after seeing what they all have to go through, I feel like I'm the lucky one. I feel guilty how much easier The Baby Formula makes everything. I love using it now. Everyone warned me that it wasn't good and the baby wouldn't be as healthy and adjusted but she's fine. It really didn't make a big difference. She acts like all the other babies who are breastfeeding. There's nothing different about her. If the Formula wasn't good for her, I would know already."
" You're absolutely right. Look at me. I'm living proof. I grew up on Formula and see how I turned out."
All of the sudden she stopped smiling and started to cry.
