Paperback
-
PICK UP IN STORE
Your local store may have stock of this item.
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781876756321 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Spinifex Press |
| Publication date: | 09/01/2004 |
| Pages: | 145 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.51(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Fear of Food
A Diary of Mothering
By Carol Lee Bacchi
Spinifex Press
Copyright © 2003 Carol Lee BacchiAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-876756-32-1
CHAPTER 1
Hell
'He won't eat,' I stated simply.
'He's just stubborn,' the nurse replied.
'He won't eat,' I insisted a little more strongly. I was feeling fragile.
'We have our ways of making him eat,' she said. I swear I could see a smirk on her face, almost as if she were enjoying this. The question was — did she enjoy the idea of making my six-month old son eat? Or did she enjoy the prospect of proving me wrong and, incidentally, of proving herself right? I felt that I had been injected into a B grade film. I mean really — 'we have our ways of making him eat'.
And so, here I found myself at one of the many specialist hospitals set up to help mothers who are not coping (hereafter referred to as Mothers' Hospitals). The women are not coping for any number of reasons, it seems. I almost envied the women who were there because their nipples were painful and cracked, and who needed assistance with breastfeeding. At least, they had a physical problem. You could feel sorry for them. But my problem (perhaps I should say our, my son's and my problem, but it felt like my problem and everyone seemed to want me to believe that it was my problem) was in my head, in my disposition, in my failed mothering. I was called a 'tense mother', not for the first time. A tense mother — what did this mean? It sounded like I was an uptight mother, a frantic mother, an out-of-control mother. Some of this felt right, but not really. Things just hadn't turned out as I had expected them to. And no one could explain why.
The first time I wrote the above paragraph, I had written 'stressed mother'. I knew the word 'stressed' wasn't quite right but I couldn't at the moment remember the word 'tense'. I knew that 'stressed' wasn't right because in the current vernacular being stressed is quite respectable, or at the very least it is expected. Everyone is stressed. There is even a café nearby called 'Stressed Out'. The term 'stressed' suggests that something is doing the stressing to you. The word 'tense' by contrast implies something in you. They even describe it as a syndrome — the tense mother syndrome. This meant that I had a condition or perhaps more accurately that I was a condition. After all, I was the tense mother.
This trip to the Mothers' Hospital (17 May 1993) is the middle of the nightmare. It is probably the worst part. I will never forget sitting in a far-off corner of the nursery watching that diabolical woman forcing my child to eat. Since I said he wouldn't take food from me, her task was to show me that he would take food from her, that he was 'just stubborn'. She shoved the bottle in his mouth. He tried to push it away. He was screaming. She shoved spoonfuls of pap in his mouth. He wouldn't open his mouth, except to scream. And then she shoved the spoon in. He spluttered. He choked. I cried quietly.
So, how had we come to this? Stephen was born in early December 1992. He breastfed, unhappily, for six weeks. He had 'colic' from infancy which developed into 'reflux' by age two months (February 1993). Feeding him, getting him to take a bottle, was not easy. In mid-March he was hospitalised with viral pharangytis. Increasingly, Stephen rejected food, pushing away bottles and screaming. His poor feeds meant short and unpredictable sleeps. Worn down, I turned to the Mothers' Hospital in early April and again in middle April 1993. We returned for a day clinic on 17 May. This is the day of the 'forced feeding' episode described above. On 21 May we were admitted for four nights. On this occasion, hospital staff sedated Stephen to feed and in the end sent us home with no resolution to the problem. It took several months with the support of friends to emerge from the nightmare. This is our story.
CHAPTER 2At the Breast
I was an elderly primigravida (older first time mother). Or rather I was called an elderly primigravida. The distinction is important. The first description implies that this is how I saw myself; the second leaves my self-perception undetermined.
You may have gathered that I object to having myself put into categories. I may as well confess that I am an academic and that I have written a good deal about feminist theory. I hope that doesn't put you off. This is not an academic book. It is the personal account of a mother who happens to work in a university.
Part of this account will be about the meeting of feminism and motherhood, a sensitive and dangerous topic. In some accounts, feminists are supposed to be dedicated to saving women from maternity. This sits uncomfortably, of course, with the large numbers of feminists who are mothers. I can almost hear people thinking that my feminism may somehow explain all the problems I had. Indeed, maybe it does explain some of them. But I assure you that no single factor could explain all of them. That, in fact, is what I want to write about. I want to avoid simple explanations. Syndromes and categories, it seems to me, are simple explanations; hence, my discomfort with them.
I was forty-four years old when I became pregnant with Stephen. This, as mentioned, put me into the category of elderly primigravida, which means simply that I was a little older than most women when they have their first child. But the repercussions are by no means simple. Being of a certain age for your first child means that you are automatically considered a high-risk pregnancy. This is so, regardless of how fit you are, and I was extremely fit when I became pregnant. In my head, I tried to deny the implications of being labelled 'high risk', but we shouldn't ignore the impact of medical diagnoses on our psyche. In fact, you could say that being called 'high risk' was not a way to make you feel relaxed about your pregnancy. Dare I say, it may even have encouraged a first-time mother to feel just a little tense.
In the event, the pregnancy went well and so did the birth. There was a small glitch when Stephen's heart was faltering and the specialist was rushed in (around 5 a.m.) but this sorted itself out almost immediately once he arrived. In fact, I can recall him making a little joke about how the heart picked up the moment another male entered the room — suggesting an early episode of male bonding. The specialist knew about my feminism, of course. I put his attempted jest down to this.
My first problems began after the birth, and they seemed consistently to be around feeding. My colostrum came in late, which was not exceptional I was told, but this meant that little Stephen had to work very hard for any food and that he screamed almost continually. Now, many people will tell you how difficult it is to stay calm while your child is crying in great distress. But they don't tell you about the knot in your stomach, the one that tightens with each wail. I walked the hospital corridors for hours each day and night trying to get Stephen to sleep. I can recall one nurse saying, 'There always seems to be one who gets to walk the corridors.' I was just wondering why it had to be me.
Stephen was born in late 1992. At this time the Breast is Better Brigade were dominant, at least in the hospital I was in. One evening, in desperation, a kindly nurse who could see how tired I was arranged for a formula top-up. She explained that some doctors and nurses feared that this could turn a baby off the breast, but she didn't accept this. I had a decent sleep for the first time that night.
They sent me home after five days. I didn't really want to go home. Stephen still wasn't feeding well and as a result he slept little and screamed a great deal. On my last day, an older nurse spoke to me. She said that she didn't want to be negative but that my age might mean that I wouldn't produce enough milk, that I might not be able to breastfeed. It's funny, you know, but I wouldn't have minded this at all. I can tell you that it was far from a warm bonding experience — the all-too-conventional image of breastfeeding — to have poor little Stephen sucking for up to an hour on each breast, with only two hourly breaks. The problem was that it was implied that somehow if I couldn't breastfeed, I was letting Stephen down. I wasn't giving him the start in life he deserved. God knows what would follow — low IQ? hyperactivity? vandalism?
I now recall fondly my French Canadian friend's encounter with the Breast is Better Brigade. Her name is Yvonne and she speaks broken English with a most charming accent. When she was offered her third child to breastfeed, she put a halt to the proceedings in no uncertain terms. 'I told dem,' she reported, 'I told dem dat I did not want to breastfeed. I told dem dat my breasts, my breasts were for my husband. Dey left me alone after dat.'
But I wanted to be a 'good mother' and so I persisted. This meant that in those first days at home I never managed more than two hours sleep at a time, an all-too-common experience for new mothers. You must recall that my body was battered to begin with. I once heard that giving birth is the equivalent to running three marathons. This sounds impressive but the analogy is too pretty for my liking. It implies a lot of sweat and some sore muscles. And it conjures up the image of the super athlete, an icon of our times. I had piles and I was still bleeding. I don't think I quite measured up for icon status.
I have records of Stephen's feeds from our arrival home until he reached 9 months old. I call these the Feeding Records. For the early period these indicate when he fed and how long he fed on each breast. They also keep track of bowel motions, recorded as b/o (bowel opened). The later records, post-breastfeeding, record the time of each feed and the amount consumed. They include 'b/o's' and, later, doses of medication. Finally, in the last few months they include a summary of Stephen's sleeps, the length of each and how often he needed to be 'resettled'. I also kept narrative Diaries. At the beginning these were daily unless something intervened, like being rushed into emergency with Stephen in the middle of the night. The entries become fewer in number towards the end and then stop.
When I reread my collected diaries and records in preparation to write this memoir, I was surprised and indeed distressed to find that there were Feeding Records for the breastfeeding days. I thought that I had kept records only when it became possible to measure the amounts Stephen had consumed, to see if he was drinking enough. These pre-bottle Feeding Records seemed to signal an early obsession with feeding Stephen. But then I remembered that I had been instructed by nursing staff to keep track of which breast he 'ended' on, so that I would 'start' him on the other one at the next feed — a practice recommended to ensure 'equal time' and hence adequate flow.
The first Feeding Record appears for 12 December, 1992. Stephen was ten days old and we had been home from hospital for five days. The record is a scrawl. I reproduce it here.
1. 2 a.m.
2. 6.15–8 a.m. (slept 8–9 a.m., 1 hour)
3. 9.30
4. 1.00–2.20
5. 4.15 (settled 5.50 pm; [corrected to] 6.20 p.m.)
6. 9.55 p.m. (settled 11.20 p.m.; arrow to 4 a.m. indicating that this is when he slept)
The numbers one to six indicate the number of feeds. The notations which indicate a passage of time, for example 6.15–8 a.m., indicate how long Stephen was at the breast (unless they specify that he slept).
Every day until 27 December there is a record similar to the one above, sometimes with little additions. For example, on 13 December it mentions 'settled in MT at 9 a.m.'. MT stands for mytai, a kind of sling. There are references to the breast used on concluding a feed — 'all on left breast', 'ended on right [breast]'. There are also references to vomiting and burping. Passing wind is difficult for babies, for some more than others. 'Winding' is a chore and an art. I spent hours trying to coax wind out of Stephen. People, including the nurse at the local weigh-in centre, used the word 'colic' to describe what was going on. It seems many babies have 'it'. But nobody could tell me just exactly what 'it' was or how to deal with it. I tried all the recommended remedies, including Gripe Water. Nothing helped.
The words 'settled', 'unsettled' and even 'resettled' dominate these early records. They are misleading words. They sound peaceful, even passive, suggesting a process that is easy and not traumatic. They conceal hours of patting and rocking. They conceal unbelievable fatigue. They conceal concern and indeed fear.
What was the purpose of these records? Why did I record these details? I think that it is probably unusual. There are several kinds of explanations. For one, I am an academic; records and schedules are second nature to me. This is an important point. In later reflections on the source/s of the difficulties I faced, I will consider seriously the suggestion that I, as an older first-time mother, had difficulty changing my ways, and that an older first-time mother who was an academic/professional faced particular challenges in this area. And I will consider seriously the suggestion that I was and continue to be ruled by schedules. But I want to insist that I do not necessarily see this as a part of me, as a part of my 'condition'. Rather I want to focus upon the reasons I wanted a schedule, the reasons I wanted predictability. The kind of busy lives we lead, complicated by holding down any kind of paid labour, made some degree of predictability essential. The lack of fit between the pressures to 'perform' on time and the inevitable variability and vicissitude associated with early childrearing is a central theme in this narrative.
The records also gave me a hold on reality. I was not getting enough sleep. Again, folk wisdom comforts new mothers and new parents with the adage that sleep deprivation is a form of torture. But adages don't help much. Thinking back, I can remember days, weeks, months without a solid night's sleep. I can remember feeling constantly tired. I remember wanting desperately to sleep but knowing that I couldn't. Stephen woke so frequently. He didn't start to sleep through the night, with any regularity, until he was almost two years old. And he had odd sleep patterns, waking almost predictably half-an-hour after he was settled for naps and for the night. So I would wait for him to wake. There seemed little point in allowing myself to get into a deep sleep only to be roused from it. Sometimes, when I did this, he broke the pattern and waited until midnight to wake. Babies like breaking patterns. This I learnt. So, I felt disoriented, yes even panicky and indeed tense. Lack of sleep can do that to you. Keeping records made it all seem real.
CHAPTER 3Respite
There is a break in the Feeding Records between 28 December 1992 and 19 January 1993. Important things happened during this period. My brother and his wife came to visit from Brisbane. They found me 'not coping' and whisked Stephen and me away to their home in the north. My sister-in-law had a three year old at the time and she knew many things I needed to know. I sometimes think she saved our lives. But that sounds a little too dramatic, doesn't it? In fact, I think that I was very near breaking point.
Stephen continued to scream in his more tropical environment. We lived in one of those little self-enclosed suburbs where the streets circle back on themselves and there is very little traffic. I spent many mornings, from 4 a.m., walking up and down these streets, trying to get Stephen back to sleep. As I pushed his pram back and forth past squashed cane toads, I can remember being grateful that Queensland doesn't have daylight saving. All this would have been more difficult in the dark.
In typical suburban Queensland fashion, the neighbours would pop in to offer advice. After all, it was difficult to conceal what was going on. Stephen and I made quite a public spectacle on our morning hikes. And his high-pitched wails reverberated across the landscape. No one in the community was immune. Hence, I can certainly understand their desire to do something.
Janice lived next door. She had three children and you got the feeling that, whatever difficulty you were facing, she had already been there, done that. She had an earthy, warm manner, and a hearty laugh. In her view, it was fairly clear that Stephen wasn't sleeping because he was hungry. And his lack of enthusiasm at the breast was due to the fact that he wasn't getting much sustenance there. 'When are you going to put him on the bottle?' she asked.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Fear of Food by Carol Lee Bacchi. Copyright © 2003 Carol Lee Bacchi. Excerpted by permission of Spinifex Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.