Holly's Pregnancy and Breastfeeding Journey through Cervical Cancer
Our breastfeeding story this week comes from Holly. Holly shares with us some very personal details of her journey battling cervical cancer while pregnancy and how that affected her breastfeeding journey.
While there are quite a few clichés that are very applicable to my breastfeeding journey—“it was the best of times, it was the worst of times” or “you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone” my story is far from ordinary.
My journey began in 2019 with the birth of our daughter, Nora. I had wonderful, unexceptional pregnancy, a natural delivery, and had my heart set on a successful breastfeeding journey, as a part of my larger down-to-earth, gentle parenting scheme. I had read books, watched online classes, and followed many breastfeeding and lactation specialists on social media; I was ready! There would be no need for bottles in my house—but of course, I had plenty, because, you know, first time mom! For a while, we were off to a relatively smooth start, considering both Nora and I were learning as we grew into our roles together. Obviously, we faced some normal challenges—sore nipples, a hard letdown that made Nora gag and throw-up all over me at least once a day until we figured out the root of the issue—but I loved the connection we shared during that time. Breastfeeding just seemed to make sense; it was portable, “free” (minus the nursing bras, clothes, supplements…), and it made me feel a love and sense of value that I never had before.
Being the sole person to get up at night with your infant, however, can take its toll. And, moreover, once my husband went back to work as a firefighter and paramedic for our city, there were many days where I not only was up at night with Nora, but I also would then spend 24 straight hours as her only caregiver. Breastfeeding during some of those sleep deprived nights definitely felt lonely and isolating, and it was even more frustrating that my husband didn’t seem to recognize my struggles. My emotions during those first months were all over the place and I often found myself crying quietly to myself as I rocked Nora in the darkness of her room. I continued to push through, and while I did pump occasionally for bottles needed when I ran out of the house, or for a rare night out, I remained the main source of nourishment for Nora through her first year. By that time, my husband and I had found a better balance of responsibilities, and I found a network of women, both online and in-person, that helped strengthen and support my journey.
After Nora’s first birthday I decided to just let her dictate how long she wanted to continue. The number of feeds each day had decreased with her eating solids, and our night nursing was becoming less frequent. I once again cherished the time we spent cuddled together, and recognized that I would absolutely miss it once it was gone. At this point, my husband and I were also starting to try to conceive a second child, so I figured getting pregnant again would likely put a stop to our journey, so we could just continue until that time.
We carried on through her first birthday, and, as we had hoped, I became pregnant again in the fall of 2020. However, against my predictions, Nora did not seem to lose interest in breastfeeding. In fact, if anything, she started to feed more, as if she sensed the coming of a sibling that she was going to need to compete with. Our journey continued, and thankfully so, as we sadly lost our baby to miscarriage in December of that year. Feeding Nora and spending that time connected with her brought me so much peace and comfort during that time—it helped fill the void that losing our baby had created.
We continued through Nora’s next birthday. Two whole years of breastfeeding! At this point, with a mouth full of teeth, nursing wasn’t always the most comfortable, but we were down to just one quick feed at bedtime, and I cherished the quiet time I could still spend with my otherwise rambunctious toddler. While I know some of my family felt we had gone on far enough, I still wanted to let Nora take the lead on weaning, and I felt that we were moving in that direction, just at her pace.
Later in that summer of 2021, we found out I was once again pregnant—our rainbow baby. We were absolutely thrilled, but remained cautious and guarded because of our loss the year before. From the start of this pregnancy things were different; it was not the picture-perfect time I remembered from years before. I was super nauseous for the entire first trimester, had greasy skin and hair, terrible indigestion, and was utterly exhausted. If that wasn’t enough, I had been plagued by vaginal bleeding from the start of my pregnancy, and although it scared me, I was assured by my OB through multiple checks and ultrasounds, that the source of the bleeding was just a harmless, cervical polyp. So, I pushed on, and once again, Nora found renewed life in nursing, and we continued to spend our evenings snuggled together.
At twenty-six weeks pregnant, however, my bleeding became significantly more severe. After a last-minute appointment with my doctor, I was referred to a high-risk OB at a local hospital. The next morning my husband and I dropped Nora off at her grandmother’s house, and checked-in at the hospital, expecting to have a few tests run and to be released with added reassurance that our baby was fine. And our baby was fine—however, our lives were about to be turned upside down in a matter of minutes, and I, unknowingly, had just had my last time breastfeeding Nora.
I have replayed that moment over and over again in my head—the doctor walks into my hospital room, my husband and I had been making fun of a couple on some home-buying show on HGTV, and the first thing the doctor does is grab the remote from my bed, and turn the TV off. At that point I recognized the gravity of what was about to be said. They had taken a biopsy earlier-- I was about to hear the results. I don’t think I heard anything after the word cancer though, it was all static. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t even cry. I was instantly numb. I was pregnant with stage three cervical cancer.
I was immediately admitted to the hospital to start my treatment. I was assured that everything that would happen over the course of the next few months would be done with my life and my baby’s growth and safety in mind. My quickly growing team of doctors promised we would both be fine. The plan was to have two rounds of chemotherapy while I was pregnant, to help keep the tumor from growing further—it was already six centimeters-- and then I would deliver at thirty-four weeks, via C-section, to ensure that I could start my life-saving treatment as soon as possible. My oncologist consulted with the board the day after I was admitted, and with the blessing of my new, high-risk OB team, my plan was approved to move forward.
Everyone around me was confident and calm, I tried my best to channel their energies, and put on a brave face as I faced my first round of chemotherapy that weekend. While the chemo went well, I still couldn’t help but feel as if my entire existence had been shattered. This feeling was exacerbated when I was released home, and I started to rock Nora to sleep my first night back. She asked for a “boobie snack,” and I realized I couldn’t give it to her, as I now had poisonous chemicals making their way through my body. Our journey had ended.
While I knew that our time was already coming to an end, this wasn’t on her terms. It wasn’t even on my terms, and it further compounded my feelings of helplessness. I knew Nora would be fine after a few teary nights (mostly me, not her) and that we needed to keep pushing forward for our new baby, but I felt as if I now had no control over my pregnancy. Our second baby’s birth was going to go against everything I had hoped and planned for: we would have a c- section, a likely NICU stay resulting from our early delivery, and then I would have to spend the majority of my postpartum period away from our baby, in the hospital receiving treatments. But when faced with the alternative, I knew what had to be done.
My c-section was scheduled for January 12, 2022 and our second daughter, Lila, came screaming into the world weighing a miraculous five pounds. Just like with Nora’s delivery, I had educated myself as much as possible and I was prepared for the c-section, my recovery, and felt confident for any scenario I would face with breastfeeding and pumping. I was ready and determined to provide our new baby girl with my milk—it was the one thing I had been given control over, and I had the full support of my medical team to breastfeed. Upon delivery, Lila was rushed off to the NICU to be checked out, and I insisted that my husband go along with her, as my oncology team wanted to do a bit of exploratory work while I was already cut open. I then sat in recovery for what seemed like an eternity. Once I was released, I was wheeled into the NICU and got to hold our girl for the first time. Although she was small, she was healthy, and I was assured that she would need minimal support and would spend as little time as possible in the NICU. After our visit, before I could even get out of my bed, I began pumping, determined to start providing for our daughter. I pumped through that first night and was elated to bring some of my first milk to the NICU.
That next morning, we found that Lila was doing well—she was breathing room air, regulating her body temperature well, and would likely take her first feed that day. However, upon meeting with the team of neonatal doctors, my one hope was quickly destroyed. The doctors were concerned with the platinum that may still be in my body from my last round of chemotherapy, over a month prior. If I wanted to still try to breastfeed, they needed to send my milk to be tested, which could take over a week, before giving it to Lila. I agreed without hesitation, but questions flooded my brain—what if the milk didn’t come back “clean?” How would this work with my future treatments? Would I even be able to breastfeed, or would I need to exclusively pump? I again felt helpless and lost. Many tears were shed during our time at the NICU; I felt disconnected from our new baby, and while I loved Lila endlessly, nothing seemed real, we didn’t have that automatic bond I had found with Nora.
During Lila’s seventeen day stay in the NICU we watched her grow and thrive, but it wasn’t due to my breastmilk. My most prized “first milk” had come back with high levels of platinum in it. So, we sent a second sample, hoping the concentration was so high because it was my first milk, and started Lila on donor milk. During this time, I continued to pump between six and eight times a day and was able to produce and freeze upwards of thirty-five ounces a day, praying that the second sample would be clean, and we’d be able to transition her to my milk at that time.
The pride I used to feel with breastfeeding Nora had turned into an obsessive determination to overcome this one obstacle I felt was still within my control. Unfortunately, the second sample still had trace amounts of platinum from the chemo. I once again was heartbroken; Lila was set to be released and we were forced to transition her to formula since I couldn’t provide for her, and the donor program stopped once you were discharged. I felt like a failure; nothing in my body was as it should be.
Even with that dark cloud hanging over me, I tried to make the most of the next month and a half. I was given six weeks to heal before I would be starting twenty-eight consecutive weekdays of radiation, along with six rounds of chemotherapy, and five high-dose brachytherapy radiation treatments. Once Lila was home, we spent time trying to navigate our new status as a family of four and enjoyed our “normal” time together. My doctor sent two additional breastmilk samples off for testing, and I continued to pump and freeze every drop of milk, hoping that we’d find a point where we could eventually ditch the formula and use my milk.
Finally, just as I was starting my treatment at the end of February, we received the news I had been hoping for-- we found the point where my milk was clear of chemotherapy chemicals, almost ten weeks from my last treatment. The good news was that I had hundreds of ounces of milk that would be able to be given to Lila, and we would now be able to supplement our formula with some of MY milk each day. The bad news was that I was now facing up to sixteen weeks of pumping and dumping, if I wanted to continue to try to provide milk for her, as I was just starting my concurrent chemo-radiation. At that time, I felt there were no other options. Breastfeeding was still my goal, and I would pump and dump as long as was needed. However, as I started treatment, I found that pumping while your body is being demolished by daily radiation and weekly chemotherapy was no easy task. Under the guidance of a wonderful lactation consultant, I dropped my pumps to four times a day, and at my weakest was barely pumping ten ounces a day. But, I kept going, assuring myself that once my body began to heal, I would be able to get back on track.
While I will spare the sometimes disgusting and miserable details of my treatments, I somehow made it through, and I was fortunate enough to ring the bell a few weeks ago with my wonderful husband, and Nora and Lila there. It was a moment I will cherish forever. During the lowest of my treatment days, I would snuggle with my girls, and I started to develop a bond with Lila that I was afraid wouldn’t exist. I also felt a renewed connection to Nora, and I’ve started to come to peace with how our breastfeeding journey ended—and how Lila’s continues to take its own shape.
I do not, however, have a super fairytale way to end this story, as my journey is still underway. My body is healing, I am pumping more each day, and will start to have my milk tested again in four weeks at my oncology follow-up. It will also be at that time that I will have testing done to see if I am, in fact, cancer free. Our bodies are amazing, and just as I trusted my body to feed my beautiful girls, I am trusting that it will continue to heal. And I hope that I will be able to continue MY story, and my breastfeeding journey.
What do you think about Holly’s story? We think she’s doing an awesome job and she is showing her girls her incredible strength! Thanks for sharing Holly!
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