The Milk Meant for You: A Bereaved Mother’s Journey of Love and Honor
October 26th, 2024
I can still remember the day we said goodbye. The EMS gently asked if I needed something to dry up my milk. My heart was shattered, and before I could even find the words, my husband stepped in. He felt like stopping would be a waste, and he wanted to honor our son through pumping and donating as long as I was comfortable with it. We both agreed, and so we decided to continue. Pumping became more than just producing milk, it became a way to hold onto Orion for just a little longer. That was the start of our journey as bereaved milk donors, though I couldn’t have known how deeply it would shape me.
From the moment Orion was born, he was a natural at breastfeeding. Those early hours in the hospital, he would latch on perfectly, his tiny fingers wrapping around mine, almost like he was reassuring me. During those nights, he’d cluster feed, his soft breaths filling the quiet room while we stayed awake together, watching the cartoons my husband had turned on before he drifted off. It felt like our own world within those walls, the flicker of the TV lighting the room, the steady rhythm of his nursing, the warmth of him nestled close to me. As my husband slept beside us, Orion and I shared those quiet, sacred hours together, his eyes occasionally looking up at me as if to say, “I’m here, Mama.” In those moments, he was my world, and I was his.
Every ounce of milk I’ve pumped since that day has been in his honor. It’s not for recognition or praise, this journey is about something much deeper. It’s about doing one of the only things I can still do for my son. Through this milk, his love, his light, they live on. So far, we’ve been able to donate to three babies, and in those early, devastating days, we even gave a few bags of colostrum. In total, we’ve shared around 300 ounces. That might not seem like much to others, but for a grieving mother with an undersupply, every ounce feels like a miracle. Every drop is a piece of Orion that I can still give to the world, a way to mother him even though he’s no longer here.
I don’t share this for praise. Yes, there are days when kind words like “you’re so amazing for this” or “you’re so strong” offer comfort. I’ve heard those comments more than once, and while this journey isn’t about seeking admiration, on the hardest days, those words are a balm to the ache I carry.
I’m so thankful for my husband, who has taken on the role of washing, drying, and putting together the pump parts. No matter what he’s doing, he stops and comes when I call for an extra hand, whether it’s to pour the milk or bag it. It’s his way of walking this path with me, of honoring Orion in these small, everyday moments. Having him by my side brings me a comfort I can’t quite express. Even our kids have joined in, my little “calculators,” proudly counting ounces and helping bag the milk bricks. There’s a quiet sense of fulfillment in stacking those bricks, knowing that something once meant for Orion is now helping another baby grow strong. In those moments, it feels like we’re all holding onto him together, each of us keeping his memory alive in our own way.
What often goes unseen are the quiet, heavy parts of this journey, the moments that carry a weight only I can feel. Behind every donation, every ounce pumped, there’s a profound emotional weight. It’s not just the physical act of pumping, I t’s the bittersweet reality that this milk, once meant for Orion, is now nourishing another baby. While it’s an act of love that fills my heart, it also deepens the ache of missing him, reminding me of both the beauty and the pain intertwined in this path.
Some moments feel especially heavy, like walking through the baby aisle, carefully moving along the shelves for the supplements I need. Standing there, surrounded by things meant for babies, stirs an ache deep inside, like brushing against a wound that hasn’t fully healed. Simple tasks, like searching for something to help with breastfeeding, turn into quiet reminders of the path I’m on, a path so different from the one I once imagined. In those moments, grief settles in softly, lingering longer than I ever expect.
Reaching out to friends for pumping advice or tips sometimes feels strange. Even though they offer kindness and support, it’s hard not to feel like an outsider in those conversations. My experience is so different from theirs, and while their responses are filled with care, it’s difficult to explain how isolating this journey can be.
Then there are the little frustrations, spending what feels like hours searching for lactation cookie recipes that fit my healthier diet, only to end up with a couple that don’t seem appealing and might not even help. Sometimes, I wish I had a friend nearby who could make them for me, or that a local bakery offered options, sparing me the extra weight of doing it all myself. On top of that, there’s the constant Googling to make sure what I’m consuming is safe to consume while pumping. These small, unseen struggles add to the emotional load I carry each day.
The support from our local crisis pregnancy center has been a blessing. They’ve let me borrow pumps, hoping I can find one that works best for me, and provided milk bags when I needed them most. Even with their help, there are moments when the isolation sets in, reminding me how few truly understand this path I’m walking.
This isn’t the motherhood journey I imagined with Orion. I never thought I’d spend my days as a bereaved pumper, hooked up to machines instead of nursing my son. I pictured counting and tracking the dirty diapers I’d changed, not the ounces I’ve pumped or the sessions I’ve completed. The stillness and emptiness that accompany this journey are ever-present in my heart. And yet, even though this isn’t the path I imagined, it’s the most meaningful thing I can do for Orion.
Pumping for other babies is both an act of love and an act of mourning. It’s not the bond I dreamed of, but it’s the closest I can get to caring for him. Every drop of milk I produce is filled with the love I would have given him, and it helps me survive the weight of this grief.
For most mothers, letdowns happen naturally, their baby’s cry, their touch, the warmth of holding them close is enough to make their body respond. For me, it’s different. Instead of cradling Orion, I look at his picture board, scroll through the few pictures and the one video I have of him, hold the tiny clothes he wore, and breathe in what little remains of his scent, hoping it will help my body let down. But it’s never the same. It’s an ache I can’t quite describe, one that reminds me he’s not here. And yet, in those fragile moments, I still feel connected to him in ways that words can’t capture.
Every drop of milk feels like a small victory, a way to hold onto him. It’s not the journey I dreamed of, but it’s the most meaningful thing I can do for him. Through this, I honor him. His love, his light, they live on through this milk, through the babies we’ve been able to help.
And though he’s no longer here, his love is a light that will never fade.
