Ever since I can remember, my mom’s common refrain was “One day I will write my memoirs” and it was usually followed by a wistful sigh. When she retired in 1995 she took a writing course and began. Christmas 2006 she presented each of her children and grandchildren with a book appropriately entitled “One Day I Will Write My Memoirs”. She has had a many storied life: her parents were “sodbusters” on the prairies, she grew up on the family farm in Saskatchewan during the Great Depression, she was the first in her family to attend university, has been married to my father for over 50 years and has loved and nurtured 6 children, 8 grandchildren and unknown numbers of other more distant relatives and friends. I am very grateful that my children and future generations will have an account of these stories, written in my mother’s voice with certain “Deloris-isms” thrown in. What an incredibly generous gift she has given to our family.
What follows is a story from that book that shows just how giving my mother, Deloris Yaskowich, really is.
Submitted By Loretta de Sousa
The Goodness of God Revealed
Easter Sunday, 1965. Our radio was tuned to a local Saskatoon station. “Mother’s milk is urgently needed at the University Hospital for a child unable to tolerate any other milk.” The words hit me like a hurricane as I gazed at our sleeping babe – 3 weeks old, plump, fair hair like peach fuzz above an angel face. My husband and four older children were at church, so I was alone with Annette. The words from the appeal kept reverberating in my mind. I was nursing our daughter but had had little success using a breast pump so could not offer some of my abundant supply in a bottle. By the time my husband, Leo, returned, I had phoned the hospital, explaining that I had plenty of milk, but could only offer it by nursing the baby. They were delighted with this and said to come whenever I could.
After discussing it with Leo and my Mother, who was a registered nurse, it was decided that I would try to help feed the child in need.
I nursed Annette until she was satisfied, handed her to Mother to be burped, and drove to the hospital. There, I met an anxious Mother, an equally concerned pediatrician and two desperate nurses. The told me Darryl, now 6 weeks old, had been almost 10 pounds at birth. His Mother had taken drugs to dry her milk supply and started feeding with bottles. However, none of the many milk formulas could be tolerated. With vomiting and diarrhea, he was losing weight. They had kept giving him water to keep him hydrated, but it was not nourishing! Goat’s milk, soya formulas even a beef extract had been offered – same result – he could not keep it down. They had come to the conclusion that only Mother’s milk might save this child. His Mother agreed to try to stimulate lactation by having the baby suckle at her breasts, but at this time was not producing any milk. As we talked, I could hear the infant wailing in the background.
I had to don a hospital gown and scrub my breast before being ushered into the nursery and being handed Darryl. He latched on and hungrily suckled – probably his first satisfying feeding. Then he fell asleep in my arms.
A few hours later, I returned after feeding Annette, to gown, scrub and pick up Darryl again. He had not even spit up after his first feeding. Eagerly, he accepted my nipple. The next few days, we fell into a routine. Only with my Mother’s help was it possible. She helped look after our older children as well as Annette, freeing me to go to the hospital 3 times a day.
Darryl changed rapidly. His skin was a better colour, his distended stomach receded and he was more alert. At last he was getting something that agreed with him. The bottles of Mother’s milk from other moms and my nursing meant he started gaining weight. His mother persisted in having him suckle at her dry breasts and at the same time she drank copious amounts of liquids. The question remained – would her milk come back? After about 2 weeks, she started to produce milk but not enough to be life sustaining.
One day, after about 3 weeks, I was met by a glum contingent – the baby’s mother, pediatrician and nursery supervisor. They told me Darryl had caught chicken pox. They explained that I was under no obligation to continue nursing him and they knew my first responsibility was to my own baby at home and my other children. I hesitated but could hear him crying to feed. I could not deny him.
I don’t know if I would have had the courage to go back despite the doctor’s reassurance. However, when I got home, I found that behind her right knee Annette had three pustules looking suspiciously like chicken pox. Her four older siblings had had the disease months before. It was confirmed but a mystery remained – where did it come from? Not Darryl – there was no incubation period and not the older children. Luckily, both babies had the same disease, and I could go back and forth between them.
Darryl’s Mother persisted in her attempts to nurse her son. It was determination and love over drugs and time. Little by little, her milk supply increased to the point when she could almost meet his needs and supplemented with a few bottles of milk donated by other Mothers. I stopped making the daily trips to the hospital but kept in touch with Darryl’s mother until we moved to Ontario. Her milk supply increased and she successfully nursed him until he was past 2. He still had a milk intolerance but grew into a sturdy active toddler.
God’s goodness had been revealed to me in so many ways. The fact that Darryl’s Mother could re-establish her lactation and sustain it for that length of time was truly astounding. Luckily, there were enough nursing mothers available when needed. The coincidence of the two babies having chicken pox was arranged in heaven. On some farm in Saskatchewan is a young man, now 31, who was truly a favoured son.
Written By Deloris Yaskowich
