Polly Gillespie

Sitting in the doctor’s rooms on a Wednesday afternoon. Very quiet. I looked up at the practice noticeboard and spotted a poster for free shingles vaccinations. I thought about that time I got shingles at 21.

I’d been in America to get a degree, but instead concentrated far more on getting engaged several times and adopting eating disorders. I was good at both.

I continued to scan the board. Top right, a notice about breastfeeding. I was a cow. I could have breast-fed the country and literally been ‘‘mother of the nation’’. I stored so much breast milk in the freezer there was no room for peas or icecream.

This particular doctor is not only incredible at her job, but also a skilled obstetrician, and marvellous human.

We started to discuss the pressure women endure to breastfeed. Some go through hell to breastfeed, and still don’t have enough milk. I understand. With baby number one I bussed daily to the hospital to have my nipples ‘‘microwaved’’. After weeks of microwaving and crying I used a steroid cream, which was strongly discouraged, but after 50 tubes of herbal help I went hard out on those rosebuds, and was thus finally able to feed.

When I was born, mothers stayed in hospital for two weeks. They were nurtured, trained, fed, pampered, schooled and treasured by the state. No-one handed them a box of nappies after 12 hours and kicked their shocked and sore butts out the door. What the hell has happened to our regard for motherhood?

What overriding national message does this send about the importance of maternity?

We spent almost my entire consultation discussing the disappointment we feel for young women today who are expected to cope, and also how all of us women are made to feel lesser if we can’t breastfeed, or we have a Caesar, select pain