The other day at work, I opened my Medela bag to find that my water bottle bottle had spilled into it from my other bag (I keep one inside the other). My breast pump would not turn on. I took it apart and dried it off as best as I could, and it worked for a few hours. By the time I got home, though, it was headed downhill. I pitched a hissy fit. I cried and prayed that God would miraculously fix it. I cried and blamed Chris for making it worse by messing with it. Random thoughts kept running through my head. That pump was a gift from my coworkers. I take good care of my things, and I’ve never even taken the sticky screen protector off. This is how I feed my twins, and I can’t worry about issues like this when they’re already so small. It’s top of the line, and I know it works well for me. I’m one month away from making it a year of breastfeeding the sisters. I essentially worked myself into a quiet tantrum and fell asleep a mess.
My coworkers were supportive at work yesterday and helped me find time to nurse the girls when Chris brought them. My mom found a Pump In Style at a consignment sale. I used one with Ames, so I’m familiar with it. We also have the option of using the hospital-grade Symphony pumps at work, and all I have to do is get my hands on a parts-kit. I’m calling Medela’s customer service department as soon as they open today, to see if they offer repair services for my Freestyle.
And that’s it. Within a few days, several options became available. None of them are what I really want, which is for my pump fix itself and for things to go back to normal. But I will make do and carry on. It’s not the end of the world, right? So why does it feel like it, when things like this happen?