I knew. I just knew. The second the ultrasound tech crossed over her little face during the anatomy scan. My momma gut told me something didn’t look right – it looked like a hole on her face, right there. Plain as day.
I was being seen at the birth center an hour away for my prenatal care (I desired a natural birth this time around) so they referred me to a local place for the anatomy scan. It was the radiology department at the satellite campus for our local hospital, and it was located across the street from my house. My sister came to sit at the house while my big girls napped, so it was just Eric and me.
No doctor appointment to discuss the scan right after, no nurse that I had as a familiar face. Just a random radiology tech who, while nice and polite, just didn’t have the capability to make it feel like the warm and fuzzy feeling you get at the anatomy scan at your doctor’s office.
She said she hoped they (the birth center) would be happy with the pics she was sending over, as baby was moving a lot and she “couldn’t get a good view of her face.” I knew, though. And when I hadn’t heard from the birth center a few days later, I rang myself so we could chat about it all.
The midwife called me back after I left a message…”We got the scan in, and everything looks pretty good. It looks like there might be a possible cleft lip so we will go ahead and put in a referral for maternal fetal medicine to do another scan.” Of course, being a midwife and being known to be the softer, gentler, type of OB provider, she cushioned it. But I already knew.
Cleft lip? Ok no problem! It’s just cosmetic. She’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. We will breastfeed.
Two weeks after the original scan, I was up at the maternal fetal medicine office with my two rambunctious girls, who were missing nap by the way, getting another scan. Diagnosis showed fluid on the kidney and a unilateral cleft lip AND palate. Gutted. We would be scheduled for an updated scan at 31 weeks, along with the option to choose between two semi local cleft teams.
The drive home took 2.5 hours that day. It was March, but it was snowing. On the highway. And I was alone with my two girls, attempting to process the severity of the situation. “As long as it doesn’t reach the soft palate,” I told myself, “it will be fine. We will breastfeed. It will be fine.”
Next came all the googling. All the contacting. It seems as if not many IBCLCs really see a ton of cleft babies – why? Probably because they’re told they can’t breastfeed. There are two in particular who I would consider specialists on the subject. One in Italy and one in Illinois.
I reached out to my private practice IBCLC village and was flooded with support, love, and well wishes. But it’s such a scary and lonely place to be. I found solace through their support but it’s hard knowing I may never be able to successfully breastfeed my sweet baby girl. As an IBCLC, especially.
I thought I had it all figured out. Of course everything in my life was one big plan. Everything I did in my life was carefully thought out and well executed. I didn’t miss a beat, and I was proud of being on top of my “game” – motherhood, my schooling, my career, my life…I took all the right steps in the right order. This was NOT a part of the plan. I hadn’t prepared for this! This didn’t fit in my life plan! I felt like things were spinning out of control and I couldn’t grasp any of it, like when you’re at the beach and you pick up two handfuls of sand, only for it to slip straight through your fingers. And you’re left with nothing but two empty hands.
Several months prior, I told my husband that I was seeking more challenging “cases” in my career. I wanted something that would knock me on my butt and really expand my horizon in lactation. Clearly, Someone was listening! I didn’t think it would be a personal case though! But, thinking back on how I landed in lactation to begin with, I guess it makes sense.
My skill set in my career has been based mostly on personal experience. My sub specialties are what they are because of my children. Why would this be any different?
Feeding Miss Daisy 