Liquid Gold

The nurse trundled in with the breast pump as I floundered to maneuver my torso into an upright position. My legs and hips were inoperative, still numb from the epidural and flaccid from three months of strict bed rest. She insisted I start pumping right away, spewing a gush of reasons at me: You’ve got to pump out that first batch of milk—that is the liquid gold! All the antibodies and things to get those babies healthy! Yours will be able to drop feed right away. You’re lucky!

I didn’t feel lucky. My husband was down in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) with our twins. I was alone, fighting off nausea, fatigue, and the urge to scream at the endless stream of nurses charging in with mandatory forms chock-full of invasive questions.

Do you feel like you’re ready to have a bowel movement yet?

(I can’t even feel my legs.)

Do you know you can rent a hospital-grade pump at a discount price while your babies stay in the NICU?

(How long will that be? How perilous is their condition?)

Do you feel safe going home with your spouse or partner, and will he be okay if you tell him you can’t do any housework for a few weeks because it will jeopardize your recovery? We can talk to him if you are afraid to tell him yourself. Would you like me to speak to him today?

(Do you assume a Black woman married to a white man must be nervous to tell him she won’t clean house? Are you thinking, “Why else did he marry her?”)

The only adult I wanted in my room was my husband, but I succumbed to the breast pump nurse: Supplying “liquid gold” was the only useful thing I could do for my children, who were sequestered three floors away from me in the NICU. I had been allowed one minute with them before the nurses settled them into separate incubators, oxygen tubes in their noses and heart monitor wires stuck to their bare, bony chests.

I couldn’t see them, I couldn’t hold them, but I could pump milk.

The nurse’s cold, pale hands boosted my breasts toward the suction cups. I winced as she adhered the sticky latex to my nipples. She connected the two tubes emanating from the glass and metal contraption, which had a large, visible piston like an old-timey car engine.

I’m going to start the machine. Here we go! She grinned and flipped the on switch with a flourish.

The motor whirred and I gasped at the strength of the traction of the pump. It felt like a magnet tugging on the fluid enmeshed within glands and tissues. I stared at the machine, mesmerized by its locomotion and the surprisingly soft, rhythmic sound—whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—that the piston made, moving in smooth synchronicity with splashes of milk sloshing into the bottles.

In my peripheral vision, I caught the nurse frowning, jerking me from my reverie. She pondered the bottles, hands on hips, lips wired in a stiff downturned arc. Worry slithered into my head.

Should I be making more? Is it not “gold” enough? Should it be flowing faster?

The nurse mock-smacked her forehead.

I forgot—you’ve got twins! You need more bottles. Probably will also need you to pump again later tonight to keep your supply going—but right now, looks like that won’t be a problem.

She disappeared into the hall before I could ask how to unhook myself from the contraption if the milk stopped.

I slumped against the thin pillows, bottle in each hand, gown open, exposed chest covered in goosebumps despite the pile of blankets on my useless legs. I couldn’t tell if the fabric was rough or cozy, comforting or chafing my bare skin. Alone and tethered to a machine rather than cuddling two newborns, I started to shake with rage, impatience, and fear.

This will be my first breastfeeding memory! This mess!

Tears dribbled onto my chin and chest, clear saline mixing with thick yellow snot. I tried to stifle my sobs: Crying made my breasts jiggle, and I didn’t want to dislodge the suction cups, proving myself an even more abnormal mother by spilling the precious breastmilk. Gritting my teeth, I let the tears dry on my face and focused my attention on the nearly full bottles. Under the fluorescent lights, the liquid had a glossy sheen. Almost gold.