Breastfeeding in the 80’s: We’ve Come a Long Way, Baby

Breastfeeding Then and Now

Some days I marvel at how different our breastfeeding experiences were when I had my first two babies forty years ago compared to now. The lack of support, the lack of understanding, and the belief that formula was “just as good” made the challenges of breastfeeding at times feel insurmountable. In those days, we either figured it out or we didn’t. There was little empathy or support for those of us who felt it to our core breast was best and we left unable to.

When I had my first babies in the 80’s, there was no such thing as a lactation consultant. I had heard bits and pieces about La Leche League, but they weren’t mainstream yet. There were no prenatal nipple assessments, no one asking about your family’s experience with breastfeeding, and no conversations about breast changes in the third trimester as your due date neared.

If we were lucky, one of the few pregnancy books might include a chapter about breastfeeding—and how to “prepare” your nipples. If we were even luckier, we had friends or family willing to share their experiences, offering what felt like hard-earned wisdom to guide us along.

There was no opportunity for a consultation with a lactation specialist, no one visiting your room after the baby was born to help you navigate those first attempts. There wasn’t even a breast pump available to you. If you were lucky, you had a nurse to give you some basic guidelines but more often than not you simply figured it out on your own.

I imagine that in larger metropolitan areas, breastfeeding support was just beginning to take shape, but in small rural communities like the one I lived in in Montana, it simply hadn’t arrived yet. We didn’t fully understand the benefits of breastfeeding. I remember hearing it once described as a “fad that comes and goes.”

Things were vastly different in so many ways—not just in breastfeeding, but in childbirth itself.

I had cesarean births with my first two babies. At the time, it was standard to stay in the hospital for a full week. After surgery, we were required to remain in bed for the first two days. Nourishment came through an IV, and food was withheld until bowel sounds returned.

Once we were allowed to get up, walking was encouraged, though pain management was nothing like it is today. After the epidural or spinal wore off, we relied on morphine through the IV, followed by intramuscular injections, and eventually went home with a prescription for codeine.

All the while, we were reminded repeatedly that we had undergone major abdominal surgery something that, as a young mother, only deepened my anxiety.

By the time I had my second baby, I was considered an “experienced” breastfeeding mother. And in all honesty, I still knew nothing but was able to rely on my intuition and the fact that my mom and great grandmother breastfed, so they had pearls of wisdom for me.

Bri struggled to latch after birth. I now know she had a tongue tie, but back then, that wasn’t something anyone talked about, much less assessed or treated. All I knew was that she couldn’t open her mouth wide, and she seemed to only suck the tip of my nipple causing a constant pinching pain. I knew it wasn’t normal, since I had breastfed one baby already. But, that was little help to me since no one knew how to “fix” it. So, I did what a lot of us in the 80’s were good at: I sucked it up because nursing my baby was more important than my discomfort.

I recognized fairly quickly that the pain medication was making her sleepy, interfering with her ability to nurse effectively for any length of time. So I made a decision to decline IV pain medication and limited myself to intramuscular injections for 24 hours, then transitioned to Tylenol. Yes, it was uncomfortable, but I also felt something very deeply: breastfeeding was not optional for me. It was what the women in my family had always done, going back generations. Not breastfeeding wasn’t an option, it was an expectation.

Before long, things became even more complicated.

It was against hospital policy to let her room in with me because I didn’t have anyone staying at the hospital to help. (Rick was on a Navy cruise at the time.) Back then, rooming in was in it’s infancy and it was common that babies went to the nursery and were cared for mostly by the nurses and brought to their mamas when it was time to feed.

What I didn’t know then was that they were also giving her bottles in the nursery, something that was further interfering with our ability to establish breastfeeding. But, to be fair we didn’t really understand that back then, like we do now.

It hadn’t even been twelve hours, and everything felt like it was unraveling.

I was scared. Overwhelmed. Backed into a corner. All I wanted was my baby with me so I could nurse her anytime she wanted. I knew I needed to advocate for myself and my baby, but again in those times, it was frowned upon to question any medical person. So, I was really out of line to even consider it.

Confronting anyone felt nearly impossible for me. A baby myself at nineteen. But this was my baby. And I suppose it’s true, even then, my mama bear was a force to be reckoned with!

With a quaking voice, I told the nurse they were not allowed to give my baby another bottle, because it was interfering with breastfeeding. She rolled her eyes and said sharply, “Giving her a bottle doesn’t interfere with breastfeeding.” Then, softening slightly, she added that Bri had been crying and hungry in the nursery, her blood sugars were low, and they needed to feed her. The baby’s health was their top priority and how that happened was the least of their concerns.

It felt like a slap.

I felt judged… as though I was somehow willing to let my baby go hungry with my selfish demands. But I stood my ground. “Then wake me up to feed her,” I said. “Or better yet, she needs to room in with me so I can nurse her every couple of hours.”

The nurse was clearly irritated with this teenager telling her what to do. She told me it wasn’t possible: I didn’t have help, I might drop the baby, because of my incision, I couldn’t move quickly enough.

Still, I persisted.

My heart was pounding in my chest as I stood there, challenging an authority figure in a way my younger self had never done before. Finally, I pleaded, “What do I need to do to have my baby in here with me?”

She paused, “If you can walk around the nurse’s station three times without assistance, then you can have your baby.”

She underestimated me.

Twelve hours after a cesarean, I got up and began to walk. I smiled at the incredulous faces of the nurses as I made my way slowly around the station. They gave me smiles, and comments of how brave and strong I was. I heard whispers too. About my surgery, about declining morphine, about my insistence on having my baby with me. Still, i saw their admiration for my determination.

It was painful. Slow. But I did it.

And I was proud.

But in the end, it didn’t matter. They refused anyway. It was hospital policy: no rooming-in after a cesarean unless the father was present. Even the charge nurse came in and said while she wanted to make an exception, she couldn’t.

I was furious.

Not just because I had pushed myself physically, but because I realized the agreement had never truly been on the table. Still, I didn’t give up. They eventually agreed to give me 24 hours without offering her any bottles. I buzzed the nursery every two hours for them to bring her to me. And less than 24 hours, she began nursing beautifully.

She still had a tongue tie, though and my right nipple quickly became blistered, cracked, and bleeding. No one talked about tongue ties back then unless they were severe. So I did what made sense. I found nipple cream. My great grandmother told me tea bags could help. I limited feeding on that side to allow healing. I fed on demand, watching her cues closely, especially in those early weeks, but nursing on that right nipple was limited to five minutes.

It was painful. Excruciating at times. But slowly, things improved. My nipple healed and she became an efficient, capable nurser. I imagine that for many of the younger mamas reading this, you may not realize just how far we’ve come in supporting breastfeeding and I’m glad. We have come such a long way in forty years.

Maybe you’ve also heard stories from the women in your life. Stories of struggle and the disappointment of “having” to bottle feed and you feel grateful for the resources available to you now.

I recognized almost immediately, early on in my own practice, the importance of having a lactation consultant.

As midwives, we know bellies and babies.
As lactation specialists, they know breasts and babies.

And together, that knowledge matters.

Even now, I continue to learn from lactation consultants. I am still in awe of what can be done to support a mother who desperately wants to breastfeed. I have never had an ego when it comes to breastfeeding support. I know exactly who the experts are. And if a situation falls outside my expertise, I will use every resource available, including lactation consultants to support my mamas. Because they can make or break a breastfeeding journey.

Support groups can be just as powerful.

Hearing from other mothers who have struggled, who have found their way, who offer encouragement in the middle of uncertainty… it matters. You may walk into a group needing support and leave never realizing that something you said gave another mother the strength to keep going. That’s why, here at The Center for Birth, we offer so many postpartum visits because the main reason women give up in the first month is from lack of support. So, if we are all up in your business, we know without a doubt you will most likely keep at it

It’s also why we have an IBCLC working out of the birth center. Because we know this isn’t just about feeding your baby. It’s about supporting you and what matters to you as a new mama.

And we are here for you, every step of the way, cheering you on.