Lily's Story

Two years ago last Sunday, we had a routine ultrasound of our first daughter, Lily. By the way the technician was acting, we could tell pretty quickly that something was wrong. She turned the monitor away from us, then kept going in and out of the room. After taking lots of pictures, she said that there was a problem, but she couldn't answer any questions. I was in tears. We were sent across town to see our doctor immediately.

That drive lasted an eternity. My mind was spinning with all the possibilities I could think of. Mike is not one for speculation or guessing or wondering, so having him help me sort through all the possible scenarios was useless. We mostly drove in silence.

We met with the doctor in one of the examination rooms at his office. He told us he had bad news, then explained that our baby, whose normal heartbeat we had heard just a week earlier, now did not have a heartbeat, that she had died. We both sat stone-faced, frozen. Of all the scenarios I had gone through in the car, this one had not even entered into my mind. As we sat there, dazed, he interrupted our mental digestion with a harsh "Did you hear what I said?" I still hear those words in my head and still cannot believe his tactless lack of feeling.

The doctor explained that I would be scheduled for an induction the next day. He probably explained what I should expect of the induction and delivery, but I was still frozen. Time had stopped. My world, my life, would never be the same.

In the jumble of everything the doctor spewed at us in our zombie state, he told us that our baby had a very apparent cyst on her neck and may have other abnormalities. Now I was really leaving no stone unturned in my imagination.

In the time that we had before going to the hospital, we cried and prayed and held one another. A lot. We also read the grief chapters in our pregnancy books, to get an idea of what to expect. One piece of advice that stood out to me was the emphasis given on holding your baby. I think I had planned on this, but my imagination was starting to scare me. I felt like the book sensed my fear when it said that reality will put your imagination at ease.

Needless to say, the thought of labor itself is often frightening for a first-time mom. It becomes even more difficult when you know the outcome ahead of time. I hadn't completed my research on epidurals, so I opted out of getting one. The idea of sticking a huge needle in my spinal cord and risking paralysis is much scarier to me than pain.

I'll fast forward past the labor details for now. Suffice it to say that I honestly thought I was going to die. Contractions are contractions, no matter the size of the baby. Having also given birth naturally to a nine and a half pound baby, I feel qualified to say that. The bonus with a tiny baby is the lack of tears (as in"lacerations," there were plenty tears as in "crying").

We savored the precious hours we spent holding our sweet baby. Even though Liliana had already passed through the veil that separates this life from the next, we felt strongly bonded together as a family.

At first we were a little timid to unwrap her little body in order to examine it more carefully, but we couldn't be happier that we did. Contrary to what the doctor and our imaginations had us fearing, beneath the huge receiving blanket, we found a perfectly formed little body. We could not help but marvel at God's amazing creation. Her fingers and toes were so delicate and flawless. Her little structure was perfect, just tiny.

The nurses let us know that the "bereavement specialist" was on her way. Figuring that we were in for some sort of counseling, I almost said we weren't interested. I'm so glad I held my tongue. Heather, the sweet bereavement specialist , soon arrived. She didn't overwhelm us with questions about how we were feeling or weigh us down with advice for healing. She let us lead as far as the talking went. She busied herself with getting set up to do hand and foot molds of our sweet daughter. When she was ready, we let her hold Lily so she could make the molds. She also made handprints and footprints. She took Lily out of the gigantic standard hospital receiving blanket and put her in a Lily-sized soft flannel bunting, then wrapped her in a tiny flannel blanket. She took pictures of her and of the three of us. These pictures are sacred to us. Heather was wonderful. We are so grateful for the keepsakes we have thanks to her.

I'm sure it sounds strange, but I really loved reading Lily's autopsy. For those who haven't read an autopsy (assuming hers was standard), it goes through all parts and systems of the body and gives details of the observations. Unlike a doctor's positive observation of a living patient, the highest level of praise in an autopsy is to say that the body part is "unremarkable," rather than "looks great." Besides the cyst on her neck, every part of Lily was unremarkable, from her itsy bitsy ovaries, to the chambers of her heart. It was genetic testing that revealed that Lily had Trisomy 18, a chromosomal abnormality that is generally deemed incompatable with life.

Lily's story would not be complete without mentioning the outpouring of love we felt from family and friends. We were so touched by the kindness shown us. Such charity helped us to heal without bitterness and anger.

We feel honored to have Lily as a member of our family. We know that we will see her again and that she is part of our eternal family. Knowing Lily is waiting for us is the best motivation we have to be good.

Here is her birth announcement.