Whipped cream and other delights
Boy, howdy, do I love breastfeeding. No, really! How else, after all, could I get an intraductal yeast infection courtesy of the questing mouth of my hungry son?
Right. Not only do I have a yeast infection, probably caught from Charlie, whose walloping doses of NICU antibiotics are likely to blame, I have a yeast infection that has INVADED MY BREASTS. It has CREPT IN THROUGH MY NIPPLES and COLONIZED MY MILK DUCTS.
It's really no surprise. If the last three years have taught me nothing else (and they have not), I've learned that if a disturbing, unusual condition exists, sooner or later I will contract it. So maybe I should be blasé about the FUNGUS CURRENTLY SETTING UP HOUSEKEEPING INSIDE MY BREASTS.
This explains the searing pain I feel every time I pump, and the agony I endure every time my clothing brushes against my nipples, and the white patches in Charlie's mouth that I, uh, carelessly wrote off as leftover milk sludge.
Let me repeat: YEAST. THROUGH MY NIPPLES. INFILTRATED MY MILK DUCTS, TAKING HOSTAGES, DEMANDING SAFE PASSAGE TO HAVANA.
The treatment involves squirting a payload of Nystatin into the moving target of an unwilling baby's open mouth; a single tablet of Diflucan for me; and antifungal cream liberally applied to my nipples. Monistat, the fluffy white coochie cream we all know and love, moonlighting on its day job.
I am so horrified by this turn of events that I am reapplying the Monistat every ten minutes. I wrenched open the tube this afternoon and already it is half gone. So eager am I to get rid of the yeast that I'm slathering this miraculous unguent far beyond the bounds of my areolas, venturing as far east as armpit and as far south as navel.
Yeah, breastfeeding's great. I really like it a lot. Now pass me the motherfucking cream. I think I missed a spot down by my ankle.