My Experience with Breast Milk Donation in Mongolia 

by Melanie Wilson

 I have an acquaintance here in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, an Australian woman who runs a private orphanage. Whereas very sick babies and children are turned away at state orphanages if it appears they may die soon, Didi never refuses a child brought to her door. Because this is her policy, she is sometimes faced with finding care for very ill children who are near death. 

Last winter I ran into Didi at a fundraising event, and she asked if I knew of any place she could get some formula. She told me of two babies, twins, whose mother had abandoned them and whose destitute father was taking care of them alone. They were starving to death and desperately needed proper nourishment. Since formula is very expensive here I could not think of any way to get it to her in the quantity she required. I knew of no organization that would provide this donation. I told her that I did, however, know of another option: donated breast milk. 

I was nursing my own very robust 5-month-old at the time, and I had ample milk to share. Though I’d never been very good at pumping, I decided that I would at least try. I knew that if other women could learn to do it, then I could, too! I was determined to be successful. I arranged to meet Didi the very next day to go to the hospital to see the twins. 

When I got to the room, the situation was completely different than I had imagined. The father was in a tiny cubicle in a room with several other families, and there were no hospital personnel in sight. All patients had family with them to help care for them and were pretty much left on their own. The father had only one baby with him, and we learned that the other baby - dehydrated and having lost too much weight - was in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) in another part of the hospital. 

The father looked tired and very relieved to see us. Didi had left a young girl there to help him with the baby, but he no diapers and only a few ragged blankets around the tiny infant, whom he had named Snow Crystal (translated from Mongolian). Her sister was named Water Crystal, and both had been fed from a single bottle and a can of formula that Didi had provided only a day or two before. There were no doctors, no nurses, and no obstacles - only a tiny, hungry baby and me there to feed her. 

She latched on and nursed right away, which led me to believe that the mother had been nursing her before her disappearance. I could only speculate that maybe she was suffering from postpartum depression. I learned in talking to the father through a translator that they were a very poor family, living with a friend in nothing more than a wood hut, with no money for food. He would go out during the day to cut wood, but had recently fallen ill himself, and they were all literally freezing and starving! I tried to imagine what this new mother must be going through and what desperation she must have felt to have left her children. 

While I nursed, the other nursing mothers in the room showed some interest, but no one seemed surprised. I learned then that breast milk donation is quite popular in Mongolia, and I realized I had had no need to worry about anyone giving me a hard time! After the baby was finished nursing – and she was indeed hungry – I changed her diaper (rag, actually) and got a firsthand look at how skinny and malnourished this child was. I knew by her bowel movement that she had at least been receiving some formula. My heart ached, but I took solace in knowing I was doing what I could. 

Next we headed to another building with a translator to see if they would allow me to nurse the other baby. The NICU was behind a locked door with a small window, which the nurse opened to interrogate us suspiciously. She left us for about 15 minutes to consult with the doctor and came back to announce that, no, I would not be allowed to nurse this baby. She was sick and they were taking care of her. I left the hospital with Didi, and we made an appointment to meet again. 

I subsequently nursed or provided pumped milk for these babies for about six weeks. During that time, Didi and her helper trudged around town in the snow picking up breast milk from several other new mothers who were also donating for the babies. Sadly, Water Crystal died, despite all we had done. When Didi called to tell me, my first reaction was feeling like I hadn't done enough. If I had worked harder, pumped more, visited the baby more often, perhaps she wouldn’t have died! I spent the next day feeling very sad, crying intermittently, but never regretting what I’d done to help. I wrote to my own mother whose words of wisdom finally calmed me. She said that whatever ultimately had happened, I had offered that baby love and warmth through my milk for the short time she was here on earth.

 I have since come to learn that Mongolia has a rich tradition of sharing breast milk that goes far beyond offering mother’s milk to a relative’s, friend’s or neighbor’s baby; it is also used to cure eye infections, given to the elderly when they are ill, for skin ailments, and liver disease. I now know several women who have either offered their own milk to others or whose babies have received another mother’s milk. It’s a tradition that I am proud to have been a part of.

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