Isabel and the Angry Itch

By Meredith Bowers
Issue 124 May/June 2004

I did not plan to breastfeed Isabel beyond a year, but, well, you know how it goes. She loves her “nursey,” and I love having a few calm minutes to snuggle with my otherwise frenetic toddler. The weaning of Isabel has become somewhat of a joke with close friends and family—mainly because I talk a lot about it. But I know that when Isabel stops nursing has much more to do with her timetable than with mine. Right now, she proudly tells me that babies nurse, and that she is still a baby. So I tolerate the occasional curiosity of strangers, and the surprise of friends who, on seeing Isabel reach inside my shirt, run down the predictable litany of comments and questions: “I didn’t know your were still doing that.” “How long are you planning to nurse?” “I have a great idea for how to wean her: you should just . . . ” But Isabel’s and my breastfeeding relationship and weaning trajectory was basically a private matter—until the Poison Ivy Incident of November 2002.

One sunny fall day in the park near our house, I was standing with my friends Mary and Amy as Isabel and my older daughter, Sophie (then three years old), played happily with the other children. At a certain point, Isabel wandered over to me and asked to nurse. Because I hate to disrupt a rare conversation with fellow grown-ups, I lifted Izzy and tried to distract her with a few minutes of “hold nurse”—her term for when she puts her hand in my shirt to hold on for security until I am able to nurse her. After a few minutes, Mary smiled and pointed to my shirt—Isabel had positioned her sippy cup between my breasts and was trying to drink from it. We all laughed and discussed the possibility of patenting Isabel’s unique weaning strategy. Isabel, a natural comic, enjoyed the attention and tried to keep the laughter going by placing her sippy cup at different angles in my bra and simulating nursing.

Forty-eight hours later, the itching began as a small rash on the side of my left breast. Assuming it was an allergic reaction to my bra, I changed bras. Later that night, the pink bumps turned red and began to spread across my breast. Guessing that it might be an allergic reaction to laundry detergent, I changed my towels and sheets. Then the bumps moved across my chest to the other breast. Surmising an allergic reaction to something I’d eaten, I ate bland food for 24 hours. Then the bumps became a fiery, scaly, shiny, intensely itchy band across both breasts, including my nipples.

“Contact dermatitis,” said my sister, a medical student. “Looks like poison ivy,” said my father, a doctor. I recalled Isabel running through the bushes at the park the previous week, then straight into my arms and into my shirt. I remembered “sippy-cup nursing” and Isabel’s hands all over my breasts. I got the definitive diagnosis the next day, when I noticed four small, red stripes on my side that were just the size of Isabel’s fingers. Just the place where she rests her hand when she nurses.

I tried a multitude of home remedies, but the rash spread aggressively and soon became unbearable. Although Isabel herself seemed happy and healthy, I thought it wise to have a doctor examine me in case there was something preventive I should be doing for my daughter’s sake—after all, she and my breasts are in pretty much constant contact. This was when the real pain began.

The first thing my doctor did was to prescribe heavy doses of topical and oral steroids. When I explained that I was still breastfeeding, my internist’s first question was Isabel’s age. When I told her that Izzy was 19 months, she exclaimed: “Enough! Time to stop. This is the perfect reason to stop nursing. You should wean immediately and have limited contact with your children until the rash disappears, because poison ivy is highly contagious.” I asked about alternatives. She was adamant.

I was stung. Limited contact with my children? My days consist of hugging, lifting, holding, nursing, rocking, washing, carrying, feeding, dressing, undressing, bathing, and cuddling with my children. In fact, when I tried to envision a day of limited physical contact, I realized that almost every activity with my children involved touching them. And immediate weaning? Wouldn’t that be traumatic for Isabel? Wouldn’t it be traumatic (and painful!) for me? The questions swirled around in my head as I tried to absorb exactly what my doctor was recommending. My visions of months of sensitive, gradual, child-led weaning were headed down the drain. I imagined going home and abruptly denying Isabel her primary source of comfort. How would I even begin to explain it to her?

My heart sank as I thought about the night ahead and the days after that, but just as I was about to dissolve in tears, my maternal alarm sounded. When confronted with a difficult parenting choice, I always rely on the notion that if something feels wrong, well then, it is wrong. I’ve repeated that credo to myself countless times—for instance, when I needed to change schools for my older daughter, and when I knew I wasn’t going to let my baby cry herself to sleep despite much well-intentioned advice. As my doctor’s words echoed in my ears, I knew her advice felt wrong—maybe not medically wrong, but wrong for me and wrong for Isabel. As my fear dissipated, a wave of anger rose in its place. Fear is paralyzing, but anger can be motivating.