We chose a Family Practice that would allow all of us to be cared for by the same hands, foregoing the bells and whistles that came with pediatrics. No play areas in the waiting room or decals on the walls. But our physician was a kind, capable, compassionate mother of two. We were the first newborn patient in a while, christening their unused baby scale. We would later know, not properly calibrated, it gave us a false sense of weight gain and breastfeeding success.
Mary, the consultant, looked straight into the tears and torment in my eyes and I’ll never forget the compassion on her face when she said “You are a wonderful mother, and we’re going to get your baby fed.” She didn’t want to admit us to the hospital, although we were on the line of needing intervention, fast. We got formula into his helpless little tummy with a tiny syringe and my pinky finger. I watched his eyes widen and succumb to that thing he’d desperately needed. Nourishment.
I know now that formula saved my child. I know now that my logic was flawed. But the shame I felt took deep and irrational turns. You can tell yourself there are good reasons why your problem came to be. You can place blame on systems that failed you and people that let you down. You can search for validation, love and support. But you can’t fool the shame inside. The shame knows you. It leaves you lonely. It tells you that no one other person has failed this badly.
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