Sepsis From Mastitis: Update

I posted on here about 4/5 months ago after going septic from mastitis and naturally, got an overwhelming influx of responses.

Recap: After multiple mastitis infections at only 4 months postpartum, I went septic. I felt another infection coming on — pain, redness, fever — but this time was different.

Blood. So much blood. We’re not talking your typical mastitis strawberry milk. Instead, I was pumping 8 ounces of nothing but blood from one breast. As if that wasn’t bad enough, then came the seizures.

It was 3 am and I had just finished my middle of the night pump. With a temp of 105, I could not warm my body up. I know the last thing to do with such a high temperature is take a hot bath, but exhausted and physically defeated, splish splash I went, right into the hottest tub you could imagine. I could see the steam, but it felt like an ice bath. Lethargic, I thought this had to be it. I had no energy to fight. I shut my eyes and turned it all off.

I woke up as my face submerged with water, as my body went limb and slid under. Freezing and panicked, all I saw was red. My body was nearly burnt from the heat, though I felt none of it. I cried for my husband to wake up and help me, but I had no energy to yell. I had to use everything I had to pull myself out of the bath. I got as far as the toilet, naked and afraid, then it all went dark.

I had no control of my body anymore. I slumped over, hit the floor, and shook like a trembling chihuahua. I still don’t know how long I was out. Under hysteria, I dreamt my husband found me on the floor — except, it wasn’t my husband, and he wasn’t calling my name, but someone else’s. Who was this man? Who was he calling out to? I was terrified. I began shaking again from the fear, though I started to understand that it was another seizure. Again, naked and afraid, I pulled myself out of it.

Now, I’m 24, but in my teenage years, I was an extreme hypochondriac. Ingrown toe nail? Immediate visit to the local podiatrist. It was bad. Since getting over that, I tend to convince myself that nothing is a big deal. Absolutely nothing. Whatever just happened? It’ll be okay in the morning. Completely out of it, exhausted, and defeated, I threw on a shirt and climbed into bed. Right back to sleep. Can you believe that?

I woke a few hours later with my shirt covered in blood. That means my body is clearing the infection out. Right? Wrong. There I am, practically dying, pumping my horrible oversupply out. 2 nipples, 16 ounces, all blood. I’ll spare you the photos, but it looked like a crime scene. I sent it to my older sister to tell her I wasn’t up to get together that weekend. My husband could not convince me to even call the doctor, even though my life literally depended on it. I’ve had mastitis before, I’ll be okay. Just need a nap.

I woke up, as white as I’ve ever seen myself, to my mom pulling me off the couch and panicking. Mom, shouldn’t you be working? What’s wrong with you? Why are you here? Who’s dying? Oh, me. We’re going to the hospital? No, no, no, I just need to nap.

Well, I didn’t just need to nap. My mom drove like Ricky Bobby to the hospital. If we weren’t first, we were going to be last, if you know what I mean. The woman practically pushed me out at the emergency entrance doors. I walked in, to nurses I had never seen before, who knew immediately I looked unwell. Skip the checkin protocol, skip the ID, no questions asked. Three of them rushed to my side to take me to a bed. Finally, can I have a blanket? No.

Freezing and confused, with nurses and doctors running in circles around me, I was being poked here, pricked there. Still no blanket, just two doctors who abandoned their patients to tell me that I’ve gone septic.

As my blood pressure continued to drop, I couldn’t bear to keep my eyes open. My body couldn’t fight anymore. I was hooked up to insane IV antibiotics, a catheter, and God knows what else, but I was in good hands.

I was out the rest of the day. When I woke up, I had been moved to a room where I was surrounded by my parents and husband. They told me my baby was with my sister, in good hands. I thought, this is it, time to say my goodbyes. Just as I began, doctors came in. Some were familiar faces who cared for me, others who were in disbelief that a 24 year old mother was hospitalized with sepsis from mastitis.

They let me know that although I needed to be under their care day and night, which meant away from my baby, I was going to be okay. Over the course of the next week, I was under priority care. After all, I was near death.

Top doctors, nurses, and specialists came to see me. I asked every one of them what this meant for my breastfeeding journey — not one said it’s time to quit. I turned to Reddit, where I received mixed opinions… “push through, quit, your little one needs the nutrients, it’s destroying you, think of all the benefits..” I was torn.

One thing about me, I’m quite stubborn. I loved breastfeeding. Direct to breast, pumping, all of it. But most of all? I loved the way it shed weight off me.

I struggled to get pregnant. Overexercising, under eating. I worked for months to regain a period, put on weight, and get pregnant at 118lbs. I gave birth at 138 and within a month, I was 100 lbs.

With providing for my child and seeing myself smaller than I was pre-pregnancy being heavy factors, I decided to keep going. Stubborn, stupid, I know. I left the hospital after a week and there I was, back to the pump.

After about 3 months had passed, I got a clogged duct and absolutely ran to my OBGYN, who had been on maternity leave herself since I gave birth. I was practically trembling with fear of another mastitis spout and as I relived the pain I went through answering all of her questions, I broke down. This HAD to be it. When was enough finally enough?

She was the only doctor during this time who encouraged me to quit. It was baffling to me that anyone would push me to keep going after what I went through. She told me everything I needed to hear, validated my emotions and concerns on all fronts, and came up with a weaning plan.

I’m now 8 months postpartum, 95 lbs with an unhealthy obsession with the scale that I’m working to overcome, and two chest freezers full of breastmilk, weaning off what almost cost me my life. I’m down from 8 pumps and over 100 oz a day to 2 pumps, producing about 35 oz and I cannot wait to be done.

I’m incredibly grateful that I was able to provide what I did for him, but I’m even more grateful to walk away from this with my life.

The moral of my story is to listen to your body. The pressure to breastfeed your child has gone too far — socially, online, internally. Whether it’s a physical issue, mental struggle, or maybe you simply just don’t want to… YOU know what’s best for both you and your baby.

You’re not a better mom because you breastfeed, and you’re not a better mom because you don’t. You’re not a better mom because you have an oversupply and you’re not a better mom because you produce just enough. You’re a great mom because you’re attentive, nurturing and loving.

Your baby needs you alive, well and present more than they need your breastmilk.

I hope this helps someone, whether you’re thinking about weaning or if you’re two years in and going strong… listen to your body and give yourself some grace, you’ve done life’s greatest work.