By Amy Bachman, as told to Dara Mathis
When I gave birth to my first daughter, Mackenzie Peach, in 2016, I looked forward to breastfeeding. I was so excited to become one of those moms who could whip a boob out anywhere and feed my baby.
We had latching problems in the hospital, as so many moms do, but I tried to stay positive. While I struggled to get Mackenzie to latch, I didn’t realize something else was wrong.
When my milk letdown, a sense of doom would flood through me. It felt like every horror I could imagine was going to happen at once in that moment. My stomach muscles, still tender from my C-section, tensed up so tightly that I winced.
Maybe I feel so crummy because breastfeeding hurts right now, I thought.
I tried to power through the nipple pain and negative emotions, but the tense physical reaction I'd have whenever I breastfed prevented my C-section incision from healing properly. Nausea made me woozy for 10 to 15 minutes into every nursing session. After four weeks, I chose to exclusively pump, although it only solved the problem of my aching breasts. All my breastfeeding symptoms — the sense of doom, depressed feelings, nausea — came rushing back every single time I started pumping. I gave my daughter six months of breast milk before I decided that weaning her was the best decision for my family.
In 2018, when I delivered my second child, Penelope, I hoped beyond hope that breastfeeding would be different. It wasn't: Nursing still felt horrible, both physically and emotionally. I breastfed for two weeks before I began pumping.
One day, close to quitting, I Googled "doom feeling while breastfeeding." That’s when I learned about dysphoric milk ejection reflex (D-MER). My experience had a name: dysphoria. That sadness from breastfeeding and pumping wasn’t because I was crazy.
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Neither my OB/GYN nor my primary care physician had ever heard of D-MER. My psychiatrist barely knew anything about it, but prescribed me some medication that ultimately did not ease my symptoms. Instead, I devoured the information on the D-MER.org website and joined a Facebook group, D-MER Mamas, for additional support. My fellow D-MER moms shared tips that helped me cope, like chugging water and watching a distracting comfort show on Netflix while I pumped. They made me feel less alone.
Still, my D-MER was severe, and I stopped pumping for my second daughter after five months.
I had my third baby girl, Magnolia, in 2020, and I once again suffered from D-MER. By the third day of trying unsuccessfully to breastfeed my hungry newborn, I was sobbing. "I’m going to pump," I said firmly, and that was that. I promised myself that I would do so for at least a month and give myself grace to quit when it felt right for me.
This time, I was much better. I stashed positive meditation books by my pumping station to read while the pump ran. I kept my charging cables and phone nearby so I can watch Supernatural or Dr. Who. Five to six times a day, a familiar dread pooled in my midsection when I needed to release milk. The second I sat down and turned the pump on, my stomach dropped. The really intense part only lasted for one to three minutes.
I don’t like being touched while pumping, so I had my husband keep our 4-year-old, 21-month-old and newborn on the other side of a closed door. I just tried to be alone. Milk letdowns leave me feeling crummy for about 10 to 15 minutes of a 30-minute session. By the time I finished, I felt better.
It's sad to me that there are many more women with D-MER who don't know what they have and probably feel terribly alone. I want more people to know about this condition. If I could go back and talk to my first-time mom self about D-MER, I’d say, "You're not alone. You're not crazy. Don’t let the mom shame get to you. If you need to quit for your mental health, then do it."
My baby tracking app told me that I pumped milk 720 times for just one of my kids. To know that I was capable of that sacrifice — even though it made me miserable — makes me proud.
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