So, you might be asking what breastfeeding has to do with autism. Well, nothing really… and yet everything in our corner of the world.
April is Autism Awareness Month; I have blogged on just about every topic pertaining to autism… except breastfeeding. Which, to me, seems a bit ironic as that is the single activity that began our quest to discover that autism was in our midst.
Another reason I find this strange is that I am a breastfeeding advocate. In fact, I dedicated a whole chapter in my book, The Mother Consciousness, to breastfeeding. The content ranged from the obvious (the health benefits, economic afford-ability and expressing milk) to the taboo side of nursing (reclaiming the breast as a rite of passage into motherhood as opposed to a sexual icon, nursing beyond infancy and tandem nursing non-multiple birth siblings).
Then of course, there was my self-proclamation of being an expert on breastfeeding. Obviously this was purely my own experiential honorary achievement that I had created. The Mother Consciousness was inspired by my innate desire to explore how the Jungian maternal archetypes had influenced my mindful decisions to partake in natural childbirth and my inherent choices within early motherhood. However, even with years of mindfully nursing my own children, I still was not aware (because it wasn’t evident yet) that nursing also would play a major role in the diagnosis, socialization and developmental growth of my autistic daughter.
The circumstances and awkwardness of nursing my second born daughter offered the first inkling that something wasn’t ‘quite right’. I vividly remember lying in the bed nursing while making googly noises – and feeling a sinking sensation when I noted she wouldn’t look at me or respond to my obvious attempt to interact with her. She stared off in space… into a private world of her own.
I thought this was an odd reaction. So I started to softly… then not so softly, say her name. She didn’t even wiggle a wee bit. I began to have flashbacks of her older sister nursing at this age (5 months) and she would gaze up into my eyes and reach for my face. I felt a panic in my heart as a siren was going off in the confines of my own mind that something wasn’t right.
Over the next two days, the same scenario repeated itself over and over… I increasingly grew more anxious. I knew in my heart that something was wrong, but I did not know it was autism. In fact, it would take years to get professionals to listen to me that something was wrong.
On the Eve of her first Christmas, I finally uttered to my husband, “Honey, we need to talk.” He got that look he gets in his eyes when he senses something is wrong. I took a long deep breath, “I noticed something the other night… well, I am concerned.” (a long pause) “Every time I nurse Sahara she just stares off into space... You know, Emily always gazed in my eyes when she nursed. But I have been thinking… and I don’t think Sahara has ever looked up at me when nursing.”(an even longer pause) “Not even once. She also doesn’t respond to my voice. Do you think she could be deaf?”
I saw tears immediately flow down his cheek as I validated some of his hidden concerns. My heart broke in a million pieces that night. To make a long story short the pediatrician blew our concerns off and said it was because I was a new mom. I reminded him that I have been a mother for 5 ½ years and know when something isn’t right, and there was something wrong…
Fast forward 4 years… Sahara was finally diagnosed with infantile autism on Halloween day 2008. Every time I tell this story, emotion catches in my throat as I think about how she gazed off into space when I nursed her and how the psychologist told us to prepare to institutionalize her because of the severity of her symptoms.
But I also remember her tiny fingers wrapped around mine, caressing me as if to say, “I am in here Mama… don’t worry.” And I think about how, even with the autism, she was able to seek my comfort through my motherly breasts when she was hurt, upset or frustrated just like her nuero-typical sister. That somehow, innocently touching my bare skin brought her the safety she needed in a world that was full of triggers and overwhelming stimuli for her; I was her comfort and transitional object.
I think about her eating disorder (children with autism often are picky eaters or experience pica) how I was always reassured in the fact that she breastfed beyond infancy, so I knew she was getting the most perfect nutrition. And how when she got sick (children with autism often have gut issues and compromised immune responses) I knew that she was still getting healthy anti-bodies through the breast milk. And even though she was catatonic for the first four years of her life, she was able to still bond and interact with me at a level that is beyond comprehension.
I venture to say that the mindful act of breastfeeding and attachment parenting may very well have been the catalyst to help set the stage to pull her out of catatonia when even the psychologists said institutionalization was going to be the only option. I am not ashamed to say we nursed her way beyond toddler-hood. I do believe that when she did not have words, that this motherly act alone, was a way for us to connect and interact with meaning. And when I see her breastfeeding her baby dolls and nurturing them through this intimate act today, I find peace of mind in knowing that she is learning how to express care, love and compassion for another human being.
This past weekend she was on the couch cuddling with me when she started to repetitively poke my breast with her small pointer finger. I smiled at her when she gazed up at me (perhaps I even silently rejoiced that at 6 years of age, she is finally able to gaze into my eyes without hesitation and that by some means we are able to create and nurture those building blocks that she missed during infancy).
What I didn’t expect in that moment, though, was for her to say, “Milk all gone.” I nodded yes and she continued in her broken early speech pattern to say slowly with much effort, “Milk broken. Mommy doctor. Doctor fix Milk.” Tears welled up in my eyes as my heart fell in love with this child for the ten-millionth time!
“No, the doctor can’t fix ‘Milkies’. Sahara is a big girl now, so the milk went bye bye.” We sat there in silence, her fingers continued to poke my breast as our breath synced together just like when she nursed.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, Sahara?”
“Milk all gone?”
“Yes, Milk all gone.”
“Sahara sad.”
“I know. Mommy sad too.”
So why is this interaction so important to share? Simply because it is the most concrete, expressive, lengthy ‘conversation’ we have ever shared together. Amazingly, the act of breastfeeding my daughter continues today to create opportunities for advancement.
If I had one thing to share with young women or expectant mothers, it would be… if you have genetic markers of autism and even if you don’t, seriously consider nursing your child. Nursing your child is not just about feeding him/her. Nursing your child is about cultivating essential human bonding and stimulating neurodevelopment and immune enhancement. Nursing your child could just be that vital gateway for future possibilities to manifest… and that could be ‘utterly’ colossal.
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