Jan from Lactation

Jan From Lactation is the pilot episode of Kid8 Podcast. You can listen to Jan From Lactation on Apple Podcasts and Spotify. If you’d like to support Kid8 Podcast, please make a donation here.

The baby mewls in the night. He stirs in the bassinet and his lungs pump out a cry.

Dad checks his watch. The hands point to the iridium dots, somewhere between two and three a.m. He’s not sure. He’s misplaced his glasses in this unfamiliar setting.

The baby is hungry again. Dad looks toward the starry array of green and white lights that webs Mom in the hospital bed. She has yet to wake. He knows she will soon. 

Finally, he sees movement, just as the baby’s cry becomes a piercing squall.

What time is it?, Mom asks. 

It’s early, Dad says.

He’s hungry?

Yes, Dad says. He’s got three jobs and that’s one of them.

Can you bring him to me?

It may be weeks before she’s moving again under her own power. Moving well, anyway. An angry incision traverses her abdomen. The boy had been breach.

Dad hands Mom the baby, who settles at the smell of his mother, the feeling of the breast. He begins to nurse.

The door clanks open. It’s a nurse, pushing what looks like a vacuum cleaner on a pole. It’s the color of egg nog and has the look of something thoughtlessly crafted in the ‘80s or ‘90s. Neither knows what it is but they know it portends something bleak. They force smiles for the intruder. They know they’re supposed to look happy.

Hi, I’m Jan, the lactation consultant. I was looking at his chart, and he’s down below twelve percent weight loss, so I think we need to take some measures.

Measures?, Dad asks.

Yes, measures.

Jan wheels the pole vacuum over and something inside Dad urges him to shove it back out the door where it came. But Dad obliges.

Does this have to happen now?, he asks

Yes, your baby is now severely underweight. Mom, I want you to start using this.

Jan pushes the pole vacuum to the bedside. Mom recoils, but stifles it. Keeps the baby on the breast. Tries to keep her heart rate under control, but there it is on the digital readout. Dad watches the screen.

Jan dumps a puke bucket full of cups, a bra, tubing, small, lidded containers. 

You need to start pumping, she says. We need to get your supply up so your baby has enough to eat. We can’t let him lose any more weight. Any poopy and pee pee diapers, Dad?

Yes. Lots of them. They’re all on the chart. See for yourself.

He gestures with his chin toward a small desk in the corner. Jan isn’t interested. She cuts the nipple zone out of the flimsy sports bra, affixes two plastic cups to the back of it.

You’ll want something more secure when you’re home, she says. But this will do for now. I want you to give him one breast, then the other, then pump for fifteen minutes. 

Dad’s struggling to take mental notes. It’s all slipping through the cheesecloth of his sleepless mind. 

After every pumping session, Jan continues, you’ll need to hand-wash all of these parts. When you’re home, there’s a microwave-safe bag. Sterilize once per week. Don’t forget this.

Dad looks over to Mom. Mom can see the headlights coming and he can see that she sees it.

The bag is only good for twelve sterilizations, Jan continues. Remember this. Mark it down each time you use it. There are spaces on the outside of the bag. Now, let’s check out that latch.

Wait, Dad says. I’m sorry. It’s two, or three, a.m. Whatever it is. You’ll have to play all of that back.

But Jan isn’t listening. She’s prying at Mom’s breast. Forcing the boy to latch and unlatch. Probing around his mouth with a gloved finger. He gags, cries out. Jan mutters something about donor milk, something Dad can’t hear. The boy is purple-faced and bawling. Mom is rocking him, but it’s doing little good. Dad can feel his pulse beating in his ear drums.

Ah, Jan says. I think these cups are too small. You have small breasts! I’ll be back with a different set.

Jan leaves. The door closes behind her with a mechanical clank. Mom starts a stammering cry.

I just–deep breath–feel–deep breath–so–overwhelmed! The tears are a torrent now. 

Dad rubs his eyes. Sits down on the edge of the bed. Puts his hand on her leg and squeezes gently. As he does, the pneumatic circulation boots, meant for preventing blood clots, trigger and also squeeze her legs. Dad recoils a bit, but replaces his hand.

Unhook me, Mom says.

Why?

Do it.

Tell me why first.

You know why.

I do know why and I don’t want you to.

I have to. Take him. But unhook me first.

Dad does as instructed. She hands him the baby. Her face is purple with strain. Pain contorts her mouth. She rises, pulls the catheter out. Blood-tinged urine runs down her leg, staining the hospital gown. Mom doesn’t care or doesn’t notice. The boy is calm now.

Mom disconnects her blood-pressure cuff, the pulse oximeter, the IV pump. This triggers a staccato burst of alarms. The web of neon stars around the hospital bed begins to flash. Down the long hospital corridor, they hear the pinging of an alarm. There’s no one at the nurse’s station to answer it.

It’s a struggle, but she takes her first steps. Stay here, Mom says. 

Dad does as instructed. 

I feel like a cow, Mom says, and Dad knows that she’s already done with feeling that way.

With much effort, Mom begins the march out into the corridor. She’s leaning on the vacuum pole. It doesn't offer much stability, it’s plastic casters skittering helter-skelter across the polished linoleum. 

She’s fine, Dad tells himself.

I’m fine, Mom tells herself.

You need a mask!, a disembodied nurse calls out down the long corridor.

Mom flips her the bird. The nurse takes it in stride. As Mom walks, if you can call it walking, she feels the chill blast of air conditioning on her bare ass. She leaves a small trail of blood in her wake.

Jan types up the report feverishly in her cramped office. Baby in dire need of nutrition. Extreme weight loss. Parents not cooperative. She beams the orders to a charge nurse. Heel stick. Blood draw. Glucose levels. Donor milk. She hears the plastic wheels on the linoleum.

Ah!, Jan calls out. I forgot to show you the controls, Dad!

Mom stands in the door. She’s a slight woman, but rage makes her stand a bit taller.

Are you a mother?, Mom asks.

What?

Are you a mother? Have you done this?

What does that have to do with it?

Are you?

Jan shakes her head. The breast pump stands between them some profane totem pole, the yellow color of curdled formula.

Mom hoists it overhead. Jan’s pupils dilate. Mom hurls the pump at Jan. Jan ducks. The pump shatters the window behind Jan, falling several stories before smashing through the windshield of a neurosurgeon’s new Tesla.

Mom leaves Jan cowering behind the desk. She returns to the room without the pump and Dad immediately understands. The charge nurse, also understanding, brings formula, donor milk, small acts of kindness like fresh blankets and towels. Somehow, the cops never get called. Not even security. 

Eventually, Mom, Dad, and baby leave, return home. Waiting on mom’s phone is a voicemail from Jan.

Hi, it’s Jan the lactation consultant. 

She sounds chipper. 

I’m just calling to see how he’s doing. His numbers looked good before–

Mom hangs up and Jan never calls back.

Thank you for reading Jan From Lactation. If you enjoyed the story, you can support Kid8 Podcast by making a donation at venmo.com/kid8creative.

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Be sure to check out Episode One, Season One, of the Kid8 Podcast: Something Authentic, debuting June 1. You can learn more about Something Authentic here. You can also follow me on Instagram: @jhannan86 and @the_k1d_8

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