Certainly never thought I’d be posting about breast milk. Or chemo. Or chemo and breast milk.

I have had a ton of messages concerned with our 9 month old and how our breastfeeding journey is going and for some reason I feel compelled to tell you our status.

So, technically, you could, possibly, breastfeed a baby through certain cancer treatments. It’s been done. You pump and dump for the amount of time you think the drug is in your body and then you’re able to feed baby before your next treatment.

You know, like those breastmilk alcohol test strips…

but instead of testing for that entire bottle of sparkling rosé you lied about drinking or those nine Truly’s you pounded on lake day saying in your non-drunk drunk voice that they “taste like water”, you’re actually testing for life-saving poison.

I’m not sure there’s a big market for those kind of test strips…but maybe I should invent them. Thoughts? (Don’t steal my idea)

But chemo is not as simple. And although it really wasn’t a hard decision to stop, stopping on someone, or thing’s, forced intrusion was not how I wanted to end my time in the milk parlor.

I questioned breastfeeding day 1. We’re so busy and unlike my first two, I just couldn’t find a rhythm this time and keeping up with it all was proving impossible. I wanted to quit everyday. But I kept telling myself, just one more month.

One month ago today I was told I should stop. It’s funny, when someone tells you to stop doing something, it changes your mental state. It’s like how I’ve always said I never wanted boobs and I’d be fine with a boys haircut because both female attributes are zero fun.

But to hear someone say you’re going to lose your hair. And a boob. Or two. Or three. (Just kidding, seeing if you were paying attention), makes you want to punch something.

Everything is being taken away from me. I know that’s dramatic but I’ve earned it. Taken away without my permission. Without my decision. And it’s the worst. It’s almost debilitating. That something I can’t even SEE is ruling my every move.

Y’all are forgetting that I’m a dairy farmers daughter. I know what it takes to milk a cow and boy was I a good milk cow.

We have a decent inventory we’ve been working through for our 9 month old and when it runs out, it’s out. We may not make it to a year, but she’ll be ok. She’s fat as a tick and growing like a weed.

This three lactation-term cow will be put to pasture. I’m trying to look forward to my freedom. Green grass, daisies and butterflies are on my horizon. And no more cleaning pump parts. That’s something to cheer about.