The cramped airport “family room” could have only housed a family of mice, I decided, as I crouched by the door, getting in a final pumping session before my flight. There was nowhere to sit but the toilet—and I nixed that idea fast. But the space was at least private, and there were working electrical outlets (and, I prayed, a working lock). As a pumping mom en route to a medical conference, I felt I couldn’t really complain.

After a seemingly endless five-hour flight, by the time I landed, took a taxi and checked into the conference hotel, I thought I might actually die. The newspaper headlines would read “Lactating Mother Waited Too Long.”

I was seven weeks postpartum and now rued having committed many months before to present at this conference. I must have been nuts. Plus, I still hadn’t figured out how I’d ship my pumped breast milk home. Yes, I could “pump and dump,” but the thought of losing all that liquid gold gave me angina. Bringing it back on the plane with me was not an option. I’d need a suitcase that could double as a cooler, and, in any case, the TSA would probably put me on their suspected terrorist list. Just imagine what a pat-down would do to my already precarious nursing pads.

In between conference sessions, Google and I hatched a plan. I found a local grocery that carried dry ice and a nearby Fedex that could ship my pumped milk if I provided the ice. Working Mom 1, Evil Fates 0.

On Milk Shipping Day, a taxi driver took me to the dry-ice-selling store, some 15 minutes away. He agreed to wait for me, meter running, in the parking lot. “I’ll be out as soon as I can!” I quickly spotted the store’s freestanding rectangular box that advertised dry ice. As I got closer, I saw it was chained up with a brick-size lock. A sign read “Please ask for assistance.”

After an eternity (okay, a few minutes), I found a store staffer placing price tags on cans.

“Can you help me with morning the dry ice?” I asked, voice cracking with desperation. “Just go through the check- out line and the clerk will get it.” I got in line behind two customers. Time ticked by; the taxi meter ticked upward; my breast milk was turning warm. The elderly gentleman at the register was paying. With. All. Coins. The next guy was up. “Doreen, I need a price check!” the cashier yells. You’ve got to be kidding me! I finally got the bag of ice and jumped into the taxi. He dropped me off at Fedex. The total to ship the milk Next Day Air in a refrigerated box? Enough to buy the milk its own seat in economy.

I ended up having a good meeting full of networking, interesting sessions and catching up with colleagues. In retrospect, it would not have been the End of Days had my son needed to be supplemented with formula. Nor a tragedy to pump and dump. Would I do it again? I’d probably skip the conference next time.

But, hey, I got a great story out of it. I plan to tell it tearfully to my son one day when he’s being particularly ungrateful. He’ll probably just roll his eyes.

Pumping at Work Tips from Dr. Chretien

Illustration by Anna Hymas