Worth All the Hurt

My chafed and cracked nipple shrieks in pain as I pull my heavy swollen breast from my nightgown, exposing it to the sharpness of the cold night air. His tears cease and mine begin as I place the nipple in his waiting mouth. He gulps eagerly pulling the milk through my throbbing, clogged ducts, oblivious of the excruciating pain it gives me. I press my free hand against the side of my breast massaging the hard lump that is blocking the flow. The skin is hot to the touch and the pain deep inside my breast tissue burns with such intensity it makes me nauseous. I want so much to stop, but he needs this. So, I close my eyes against the searing pain, continue to massage the clog, and wait for this to pass as my tears pour down my cheeks.

This is not what I thought this would be like. My neglected, uncombed hair is piled in a rat's nest atop my head and I can't remember the last time I showered. My meals all grow cold waiting to be eaten while I tend to his needs first. Sleep begs for me to nestle into its comforting embrace, but it must wait time after time as he whimpers for me to embrace him instead. I wrap him into clean clothes while mine remain splattered in various fluids that once were inside him. I would change, but I only have two outfits that seem to fit right now and there's no time. No time to wash them. No time to shop for new ones. No time for me at all. I barely recognize my body, with the marble streaked, sagging skin across what is no longer recognizable as a waist.

But this is the most excruciating disappointment of all.

I expected it to be such a sweet bonding experience. To be able to hold him close against me and provide him with nourishment should be something I cherish not cringe at the thought. I wasn't prepared for this pain, for this struggle. My sister promises it will be worth it, it will get easier, she says. The first month is the hardest. I hope she's right. Maybe I'm not cut out for this. Maybe I'm broken.

His gulping slows and his grip on my nipple becomes slack. He has drifted off to sleep. Sliding my finger gently between his lips and my skin, I break the seal. He turns his little head slightly and his lips twitch at the sides into a semblance of a peaceful smile. I lay him gently against my chest and feel the soft tapping of his little heart against my own. It seems to flood warmth through my battered soul.

The pain in my breast begins to ebb. I forget how tired I feel as I drink in this peaceful moment. I trace the soft curves of his perfect little nose and cheeks with my finger tip and watch his eyelids flutter slightly in his dreams. At this moment everything else is worth it. I can handle a little pain. I don't need sleep or food. I probably still need a shower, but it can wait. He can't. This moment will pass far too quickly. My eyelids grow heavy and I drift off to sleep, with him still nestled against my chest.

I wake to find him gone and remember that wasn't last night. That first endless month eventually passed and with it the pain. Nursing him became pleasant, though sometimes still tedious. He grew and learned to giggle, still my most favorite sound. He toddled about and I chased him everywhere. He never sat still and I never could catch him. Off to school and out to play he went and I drove him everywhere.

Sleepless nights still continued. First midnight asthma attacks and croup, fevers and vomit kept us awake at his bedside. Then, there were monsters and growing pains. Worry and fear through his most challenging years led to tossing and turning all through the night.

I taught him to talk and he learned to talk back. My own dreams were abandoned so he could have my undivided attention. He thanked me by asking him to just leave him alone. He told me he hated me and I told him that's fine.

But he'd climb in my lap and cuddle for movies. Then he'd sit at my side and teach me to play Zelda. He drove me home and regaled me with stories from school. He'd hug me tight every night before bed. Sometimes he even thanked me for dinner.

He's taller than me now and he's moved out on his own. He still comes home for Sunday dinner. He tells me about the girl he loves and brings her with him. I love to watch how he dotes on her and how she makes him laugh. We talk like we're the best of friends while we play games. This is way better than anything I ever hoped. I hug him goodbye and it still floods my soul with warmth. I miss holding him all through the night, back in the days when he needed me for everything, but I couldn't be prouder of the man he's become. In the recesses of my memory I hear the voice of my own mother, “Those you love most are the ones you sacrifice the most for.” I finally appreciate the wisdom of those words.