Pregnant & Breastfeeding Women Who Get the COVID-19 Vaccine Are Protecting Their Infants, Research Suggests
Becky Cummings, who got vaccinated in December, snuggles her newborn, Clark, while he takes a nap.
Becky Cummings had multiple reasons to get vaccinated against COVID-19 while tending to her firstborn, Clark, who arrived in September 2020 at 27 weeks.
The 29-year-old intensive care unit nurse in Greensboro, North Carolina, had witnessed the devastation day in and day out as the virus took its toll on the young and old. But when she was offered the vaccine, she hesitated, skeptical of its rapid emergency use authorization.
Exclusion of pregnant and lactating mothers from clinical trials fueled her concerns. Ultimately, though, she concluded the benefits of vaccination outweighed the risks of contracting the potentially deadly virus.
"Long story short," Cummings says, in December "I got vaccinated to protect myself, my family, my patients, and the general public."
At the time, Cummings remained on the fence about breastfeeding, citing a lack of evidence to support its safety after vaccination, so she pumped and stashed breast milk in the freezer. Her son is adjusting to life as a preemie, requiring mother's milk to be thickened with formula, but she's becoming comfortable with the idea of breastfeeding as more research suggests it's safe.
"If I could pop him on the boob," she says, "I would do it in a heartbeat."
Now, a study recently published in the Journal of the American Medical Association found "robust secretion" of specific antibodies in the breast milk of mothers who received a COVID-19 vaccine, indicating a potentially protective effect against infection in their infants.
The presence of antibodies in the breast milk, detectable as early as two weeks after vaccination, lasted for six weeks after the second dose of the Pfizer-BioNTech vaccine.
"We believe antibody secretion into breast milk will persist for much longer than six weeks, but we first wanted to prove any secretion at all after vaccination," says Ilan Youngster, the study's corresponding author and head of pediatric infectious diseases at Shamir Medical Center in Zerifin, Israel.
That's why the research team performed a preliminary analysis at six weeks. "We are still collecting samples from participants and hope to soon be able to comment about the duration of secretion."
As with other respiratory illnesses, such as influenza and pertussis, secretion of antibodies in breast milk confers protection from infection in infants. The researchers expect a similar immune response from the COVID-19 vaccine and are expecting the findings to spur an increase in vaccine acceptance among pregnant and lactating women.
A COVID-19 outbreak struck three families the research team followed in the study, resulting in at least one non-breastfed sibling developing symptomatic infection; however, none of the breastfed babies became ill. "This is obviously not empirical proof," Youngster acknowledges, "but still a nice anecdote."
Leaps.org inquired whether infants who derive antibodies only through breast milk are likely to have a lower immunity than infants whose mothers were vaccinated while they were in utero. In other words, is maternal transmission of antibodies stronger during pregnancy than during breastfeeding, or about the same?
"This is a different kind of transmission," Youngster explains. "When a woman is infected or vaccinated during pregnancy, some antibodies will be transferred through the placenta to the baby's bloodstream and be present for several months." But in the nursing mother, that protection occurs through local action. "We always recommend breastfeeding whenever possible, and, in this case, it might have added benefits."
A study published online in March found COVID-19 vaccination provided pregnant and lactating women with robust immune responses comparable to those experienced by their nonpregnant counterparts. The study, appearing in the American Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology, documented the presence of vaccine-generated antibodies in umbilical cord blood and breast milk after mothers had been vaccinated.
Natali Aziz, a maternal-fetal medicine specialist at Stanford University School of Medicine, notes that it's too early to draw firm conclusions about the reduction in COVID-19 infection rates among newborns of vaccinated mothers. Citing the two aforementioned research studies, she says it's biologically plausible that antibodies passed through the placenta and breast milk impart protective benefits. While thousands of pregnant and lactating women have been vaccinated against COVID-19, without incurring adverse outcomes, many are still wondering whether it's safe to breastfeed afterward.
It's important to bear in mind that pregnant women may develop more severe COVID-19 complications, which could lead to intubation or admittance to the intensive care unit. "We, in our practice, are supporting pregnant and breastfeeding patients to be vaccinated," says Aziz, who is also director of perinatal infectious diseases at Stanford Children's Health, which has been vaccinating new mothers and other hospitalized patients at discharge since late April.
Earlier in April, Huntington Hospital in Long Island, New York, began offering the COVID-19 vaccine to women after they gave birth. The hospital chose the one-shot Johnson & Johnson vaccine for postpartum patients, so they wouldn't need to return for a second shot while acclimating to life with a newborn, says Mitchell Kramer, chairman of obstetrics and gynecology.
The hospital suspended the program when the Food and Drug Administration and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention paused use of the J&J vaccine starting April 13, while investigating several reports of dangerous blood clots and low platelet counts among more than 7 million people in the United States who had received that vaccine.
In lifting the pause April 23, the agencies announced the vaccine's fact sheets will bear a warning of the heightened risk for a rare but serious blood clot disorder among women under age 50. As a result, Kramer says, "we will likely not be using the J&J vaccine for our postpartum population."
So, would it make sense to vaccinate infants when one for them eventually becomes available, not just their mothers? "In general, most of the time, infants do not have as good of an immune response to vaccines," says Jonathan Temte, associate dean for public health and community engagement at the University of Wisconsin School of Medicine and Public Health in Madison.
"Many of our vaccines are held until children are six months of age. For example, the influenza vaccine starts at age six months, the measles vaccine typically starts one year of age, as do rubella and mumps. Immune response is typically not very good for viral illnesses in young infants under the age of six months."
So far, the FDA has granted emergency use authorization of the Pfizer-BioNTech vaccine for children as young as 16 years old. The agency is considering data from Pfizer to lower that age limit to 12. Studies are also underway in children under age 12. Meanwhile, data from Moderna on 12-to 17-year-olds and from Pfizer on 12- to 15-year-olds have not been made public. (Pfizer announced at the end of March that its vaccine is 100 percent effective in preventing COVID-19 in the latter age group, and FDA authorization for this population is expected soon.)
"There will be step-wise progression to younger children, with infants and toddlers being the last ones tested," says James Campbell, a pediatric infectious diseases physician and head of maternal and child clinical studies at the University of Maryland School of Medicine Center for Vaccine Development.
"Once the data are analyzed for safety, tolerability, optimal dose and regimen, and immune responses," he adds, "they could be authorized and recommended and made available to American children." The data on younger children are not expected until the end of this year, with regulatory authorization possible in early 2022.
For now, Vonnie Cesar, a family nurse practitioner in Smyrna, Georgia, is aiming to persuade expectant and new mothers to get vaccinated. She has observed that patients in metro Atlanta seem more inclined than their rural counterparts.
To quell some of their skepticism and fears, Cesar, who also teaches nursing students, conceived a visual way to demonstrate the novel mechanism behind the COVID-19 vaccine technology. Holding a palm-size physical therapy ball outfitted with clear-colored push pins, she simulates the spiked protein of the coronavirus. Slime slathered at the gaps permeates areas around the spikes—a process similar to how our antibodies build immunity to the virus.
These conversations often lead hesitant patients to discuss vaccination with their husbands or partners. "The majority of people I'm speaking with," she says, "are coming to the conclusion that this is the right thing for me, this is the common good, and they want to make sure that they're here for their children."
CORRECTION: An earlier version of this article mistakenly stated that the COVID-19 vaccines were granted emergency "approval." They have been granted emergency use authorization, not full FDA approval. We regret the error.
A female doctor giving encouragement to an elderly patient.
Taboo topics occupy a difficult place in the history of medicine. Society has long been reticent about confronting stigmatized conditions, forcing many patients to suffer in silence and isolation, often with poorer care.
"Classically, doctors don't purposely kill people. That is really the core of the resistance."
AIDS activists recognized this in the 1980s when they coined the phrase Silence = Death to generate public debate and action over a growing epidemic that until then had existed largely in the shadows. The slogan and the activists behind it were remarkably successful at changing the public discourse.
It is not a lone example. Post-World War II medicine is better because it came to deal more forthrightly with a broad range of medical conditions from conception/abortion, to cancer, to sexually transmitted infections. The most recent issue to face such scrutiny is physician-assisted dying (PAD).
"Classically, doctors don't purposely kill people…that is really the core of the resistance" to PAD from the provider perspective, says Neil Wenger, an internist and ethicist at the University of California Los Angeles who focuses on end-of-life issues.
But from the patient perspective, the option of PAD "provides important psychological benefits ... because it gives the terminally ill autonomy, control, and choice," argued the American Public Health Association in support of Oregon's death with dignity legislation.
Jack Kervorkian, "Dr. Death," was one of the first to broach the subject when few in polite society were willing to do so. The modern era truly began twenty years ago when the citizens of Oregon embraced the option of death with dignity in a public referendum, over the objections of their political leaders.
Expansion of the legal option in North America was incremental until 2016 when the Supreme Court in Canada and legislators in California decided that control over one's body extended to death, at least under certain explicit conditions.
An estimated 18 percent of Americans now live in jurisdictions that provide the legal option of assisted death, but exercising that right can be difficult. Only a fraction of one percent of deaths are by PAD, even in Oregon.
Stakeholder Roles
Few organizations of healthcare professionals in the U.S. support PAD; some actively oppose it, others have switched to a position of neutrality while they study the issue.
One doctor wanted to organize a discussion of physician-assisted dying at his hospital, but administrators forbade it.
But once a jurisdiction makes the political/legal decision that patients have a right to physician-assisted death, what are the roles and responsibilities of medical stakeholders? Can they simply opt out in a vow of silence? Or do organizations bear some sort of obligation to ensure access to that right, no matter their own position, particularly when they are both regulated by and receive operating funds from public sources?
The law in California and other U.S. jurisdictions reflects ambivalence about PAD by treating it differently from other medical practices, says David Magnus, an ethicist at Stanford University School of Medicine. It is allowed but "it's intentionally a very, very burdensome process."
Medical decisions, including withdrawing life support or a do not resuscitate [DNR] order, are between a physician and the patient or guardian. But PAD requires outside consultation and documentation that is quite rigorous, even burdensome, Magnus explains. He recalls one phone consult with a physician who had to re-have a conversation with a patient at home in order to meet the regulatory requirements for a request for assistance in dying. "So it is not surprising that it is utilized so infrequently."
The federal government has erected its own series of barriers. Roused by the experience in Oregon, opponents tried to ban PAD at the national level. They failed but did the next best thing; they prohibited use of federal funds to pay for or even discuss PAD. That includes Medicare, Medicaid, and the large health delivery systems run by the Pentagon and Veterans Affairs. The restrictions parallel those on federal funding for access to abortion and medical marijuana.
Even physicians who support and perform PAD are reluctant to talk about it. They are unwilling to initiate the discussion with patients, says Mara Buchbinder, a bioethicist at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill who has interviewed physicians, patients, and families about their experience with assisted dying in Vermont.
"There is a stigma for health care workers to talk about this; they feel that they are not supported," says Buchbinder. She relates how one doctor wanted to organize a discussion of PAD at his hospital, but administrators forbade it. And when the drug used to carry out the procedure became prohibitively expensive, other physicians were not aware of alternatives.
"This just points to large inadequacies in medical preparation around end-of-life conversations," says Buchbinder, a view endorsed by many experts interviewed for this article.
These inadequacies are reinforced when groups like the Coalition to Transform Advanced Care (C-TAC), a 140-member organizational alliance that champions improved end-of-life care, dodges the issue. A spokesman said simply, PAD "is not within the scope of our work."
The American Medical Association has had a policy in place opposing PAD since 1993. Two years ago, its House of Delegates voted to reevaluate their position in light of evolving circumstances. Earlier this year the Council of Ethical and Judicial Affairs recommended continued opposition, but in June, the House of Delegates rejected that recommendation (56 to 44 percent) and directed the Council to keep studying the issue.
Only those with the economic and social capital and network of advocates will succeed in exercising this option.
Kaiser Permanente has provided assisted dying to its members in multiple states beginning with Oregon and has done "a wonderful job" according to supporters of PAD. But it has declined to discuss those activities publicly despite a strenuous effort to get them to do so.
Rather than drawing upon formal structures for leadership and guidance, doctors who are interested in learning more about PAD are turning to the ad hoc wisdom of providers from Oregon and Washington who have prior experience. Magnus compares it with what usually happens when a new intervention or technology comes down the pike: "People who have done it, have mastered it, pass that knowledge on to other people so they know how to do it."
Buchbinder says it becomes an issue of social justice when providers are not adequately trained, and when patients are not ordinarily offered the option of a medical service in jurisdictions where it is their right.
Legalization of PAD "does not guarantee practical access, and well-intentioned policies designed to protect vulnerable groups may at times reinforce or exacerbate health care inequalities," she says. Only those with the economic and social capital and network of advocates will succeed in exercising this option.
O Canada
Canada provides a case study of how one might address PAD. They largely settled on the term medical aid in dying – often shortened to MAID – as the more neutral phrase for their law and civil discourse.
The Canadian Medical Association (CMA) decided early on to thread the needle; to not take a position on the core issue of morality but to proactively foster public discussion of those issues as the legal challenge to the ban on assisted dying headed to that country's Supreme Court.
"We just felt that it was too important for the profession to sit on the sidelines and not be part of the discussion," says Jeff Blackmer, CMA's vice president for medical professionalism.
It began by shifting the focus of discussion from a yes/no on the morality of MAID to the questions of, "If the court rules that the current laws are unconstitutional, and they allow assisted dying, how should the profession react and how should we respond? And how does the public think that the profession should respond?"
"I had to wear a flack jacket, a bulletproof vest, and there were plainclothes police officers with guns in the audience because it is really really very controversial."
The CMA teamed up with Maclean's magazine to host a series of five town hall meetings throughout the country. Assisted dying was discussed in a context of palliative care, advanced care planning, and other end-of-life issues.
There was fear that MAID might raise passions and even violence that has been seen in recent controversies over abortion. "I had to wear a flack jacket, a bulletproof vest, and there were plainclothes police officers with guns in the audience because it is really really very controversial," Blackmer recalls. Thankfully there were no major incidents.
The CMA also passed a resolution at its annual meeting supporting the right of its members to opt out of participating in MAID, within the confines of whatever law might emerge.
Once legislation and regulations began taking shape, the CMA created training materials on the ethical, legal, and practical consideration that doctors and patients might face. It ordinarily does not get involved with clinical education and training.
Stefanie Green is president of Canadian Association of MAID Assessors & Providers, a professional medical association that supports those working in the area of assisted dying, educates the public and health care community, and provides leadership on setting medical standards. Green acknowledges the internal pressures the CMA faced, and says, "I do understand their stance is as positive as it gets for medical associations."
Back in the USofA
Prohibitionism – the just say no approach – does not work when a substantial number of people want something, as demonstrated with alcohol, marijuana, opioids for pain relief, and reproductive control. Reason suggests a harm reduction strategy is the more viable approach.
"Right now we're stuck in the worst of all worlds because we've made [PAD] sort of part of medicine, but sort of illicit and sort of shameful. And we sort of allow it, but we sort of don't, we make it hard," says Stanford's Magnus. "And that's a no man's land where we are stuck."
A rendering of DNA with a judge's gavel.
Imagine this scenario: A couple is involved in a heated custody dispute over their only child. As part of the effort to make the case of being a better guardian, one parent goes on a "genetic fishing expedition": this parent obtains a DNA sample from the other parent with the hope that such data will identify some genetic predisposition to a psychiatric condition (e.g., schizophrenia) and tilt the judge's custody decision in his or her favor.
As knowledge of psychiatric genetics is growing, it is likely to be introduced in civil cases, such as child custody disputes and education-related cases, raising a tangle of ethical and legal questions.
This is an example of how "behavioral genetic evidence" -- an umbrella term for information gathered from family history and genetic testing about pathological behaviors, including psychiatric conditions—may in the future be brought by litigants in court proceedings. Such evidence has been discussed primarily when criminal defendants sought to introduce it to make the claim that they are not responsible for their behavior or to justify their request for reduced sentencing and more lenient punishment.
However, civil cases are an emerging frontier for behavioral genetic evidence. It has already been introduced in tort litigation, such as personal injury claims, and as knowledge of psychiatric genetics is growing, it is further likely to be introduced in other civil cases, such as child custody disputes and education-related cases. But the introduction of such evidence raises a tangle of ethical and legal questions that civil courts will need to address. For example: how should such data be obtained? Who should get to present it and under what circumstances? And does the use of such evidence fit with the purposes of administering justice?
How Did We Get Here?
That behavioral genetic evidence is entering courts is unsurprising. Scientific evidence is a common feature of judicial proceedings, and genetic information may reveal relevant findings. For example, genetic evidence may elucidate whether a child's medical condition is due to genetic causes or medical malpractice, and it has been routinely used to identify alleged offenders or putative fathers. But behavioral genetic evidence is different from such other genetic data – it is shades of gray, instead of black and white.
Although efforts to understand the nature and origins of human behavior are ongoing, existing and likely future knowledge about behavioral genetics is limited. Behavioral disorders are highly complex and diverse. They commonly involve not one but multiple genes, each with a relatively small effect. They are impacted by many, yet unknown, interactions between genes, familial, and environmental factors such as poverty and childhood adversity.
And a specific gene variant may be associated with more than one behavioral disorder and be manifested with significantly different symptoms. Thus, biomarkers about "predispositions" for behavioral disorders cannot generally provide a diagnosis or an accurate estimate of whether, when, and at what severity a behavioral disorder will occur. And, unlike genetic testing that can confirm litigants' identity with 99.99% probability, behavioral genetic evidence is far more speculative.
Genetic theft raises questions about whose behavioral data are being obtained, by whom, and with what authority.
Whether judges, jurors, and other experts understand the nuances of behavioral genetics is unclear. Many people over-estimate the deterministic nature of genetics, and under-estimate the role of environments, especially with regards to mental health status. The U.S. individualistic culture of self-reliance and independence may further tilt the judicial scales because litigants in civil courts may be unjustly blamed for their "bad genes" while structural and societal determinants that lead to poor behavioral outcomes are ignored.
These concerns were recently captured in the Netflix series "13 Reasons Why," depicting a negligence lawsuit against a school brought by parents of a high-school student there (Hannah) who committed suicide. The legal tides shifted from the school's negligence in tolerating a culture of bullying to parental responsibility once cross-examination of Hannah's mother revealed a family history of anxiety, and the possibility that Hannah had a predisposition for mental illness, which (arguably) required therapy even in the absence of clear symptoms.
Where Is This Going?
The concerns are exacerbated given the ways in which behavioral genetic evidence may come to court in the future. One way is through "genetic theft," where genetic evidence is obtained from deserted property, such as soft-drink cans. This method is often used for identification purposes such as criminal and paternity proceedings, and it will likely expand to behavioral genetic data once available through "home kits" that are offered by direct-to-consumer companies.
Genetic theft raises questions about whose behavioral data are being obtained, by whom, and with what authority. In the scenario of child-custody dispute, for example, the sequencing of the other parent's DNA will necessarily intrude on the privacy of that parent, even as the scientific value of such information is limited. A parent on a "genetic fishing expedition" can also secretly sequence their child for psychiatric genetic predispositions, arguably, in order to take preventative measures to reduce the child's risk for developing a behavioral disorder. But should a parent be allowed to sequence the child without the other parent's consent, or regardless of whether the results will provide medical benefits to the child?
Similarly, although schools are required, and may be held accountable for failing to identify children with behavioral disabilities and to evaluate their educational needs, some parents may decline their child's evaluation by mental health professionals. Should schools secretly obtain a sample and sequence children for behavioral disorders, regardless of parental consent? My study of parents found that the overwhelming majority opposed imposed genetic testing by school authorities. But should parental preference or the child's best interests be the determinative factor? Alternatively, could schools use secretly obtained genetic data as a defense that they are fulfilling the child-find requirement under the law?
The stigma associated with behavioral disorders may intimidate some people enough that they back down from just claims.
In general, samples obtained through genetic theft may not meet the legal requirements for admissible evidence, and as these examples suggest, they also involve privacy infringement that may be unjustified in civil litigation. But their introduction in courts may influence judicial proceedings. It is hard to disregard such evidence even if decision-makers are told to ignore it.
The costs associated with genetic testing may further intensify power differences among litigants. Because not everyone can pay for DNA sequencing, there is a risk that those with more resources will be "better off" in court proceedings. Simultaneously, the stigma associated with behavioral disorders may intimidate some people enough that they back down from just claims. For example, a good parent may give up a custody claim to avoid disclosure of his or her genetic predispositions for psychiatric conditions. Regulating this area of law is necessary to prevent misuses of scientific technologies and to ensure that powerful actors do not have an unfair advantage over weaker litigants.
Behavioral genetic evidence may also enter the courts through subpoena of data obtained in clinical, research or other commercial genomic settings such as ancestry testing (similar to the genealogy database recently used to identify the Golden State Killer). Although court orders to testify or present evidence are common, their use for obtaining behavioral genetic evidence raises concerns.
One worry is that it may be over-intrusive. Because behavioral genetics are heritable, such data may reveal information not only about the individual litigant but also about other family members who may subsequently be stigmatized as well. And, even if we assume that many people may be willing for their data in genomic databases to be used to identify relatives who committed crimes (e.g., a rapist or a murderer), we can't assume the same for civil litigation, where the public interest in disclosure is far weaker.
Another worry is that it may deter people from participating in activities that society has an interest in advancing, including medical treatment involving genetic testing and genomic research. To address this concern, existing policy provides expanded privacy protections for NIH-funded genomic research by automatically issuing a Certificate of Confidentiality that prohibits disclosure of identifiable information in any Federal, State, or local civil, criminal, and other legal proceedings.
But this policy has limitations. It applies only to specific research settings and does not cover non-NIH funded research or clinical testing. The Certificate's protections can also be waived under certain circumstances. People who volunteer to participate in non-NIH-funded genomic research for the public good may thus find themselves worse-off if embroiled in legal proceedings.
Consider the following: if a parent in a child custody dispute had participated in a genetic study on schizophrenia years earlier, should the genetic results be subpoenaed by the court – and weaponized by the other parent? Public policy should aim to reduce the risks for such individuals. The end of obtaining behavioral genetic evidence cannot, and should not, always justify the means.