# Lucia's Birth Story



## mamacita angelica (Oct 6, 2006)

I appreciate your notes since losing my daughter. Some of you have encouraged me to write her birth story, and I am sharing this with everyone. I feel so scared to do this, because it seems so final. Her loss is still sinking in. It is a long one. Some of us need editors in life.









November 27, 2008. I had a dream about Lucia tonight. I was on my grandparent's back porch-a large redwood deck looking into the Pennsylvania wood. My hands were searching my belly, feeling her position, and I could feel her head under my sternum. Breech, I thought. But my hands searched her head, and continued to her shoulders, and then connected to her arms which wrapped around my middle. Then I realized she was holding onto my belly, rather than being inside me. I looked down to see her dark hair. Ah, she is beautiful. Simply gorgeous. When I held her up I could see these violet eyes, and a smile. Her nose was crooked, so I took my finger and pushed it straight. And her eyes were violet. Stunningly violet purple. But what stuck with me was her smile and the peace on her face. That is what she gave me-a sense of peace from her smile. It is all she did, smile. I held her as I once held my Beatrice, on the left, to feed from the breast&#8230;it wasn't a long enough dream. After my dream, I wanted her middle name to be Paz, which means "peace" in Spanish.

December 21, 2008. I had predicted many months ago, that my daughter would be born on solstice. At first, I said this was December 20th, but then I realized I had the wrong date. Sunday, that day, there was something about the lack of movement that was disturbing me. Had it been one day or two? Did I feel her yesterday? I couldn't remember. Chasing my 20-month old daughter means that I seldom pay attention to movement during the day. I had attended a baby shower earlier, and thought I felt some shifting, but honestly, that seems all I have felt for Saturday and Sunday-shifting. Her bum would suddenly be hard and in front. Maybe there wasn't enough room. I was 38 weeks. She must be tired from all the contractions I had had Thursday and Friday. I kept justifying all these different reasons for not feeling her be squirmy, but the truth is Friday, I know she was wiggling, and Thursday, I was in the hospital being monitored for what was a slightly elevated blood pressure. She was there, and responsive, and her heartbeat was beautifully loud in the little room.

Sunday evening, after I sat for a while, I began prodding her, moving her head, trying to get a reaction from her, but her body felt limp in my belly. I searched my belly for a heartbeat with a stethoscope. Nothing. My husband told me that it is difficult with the stethoscope to hear the heartbeat. I called the midwife. She told me to come to the hospital to be monitored.

In my mind, I kept thinking that I was going to look like a fool to come in and be monitored for my healthy baby. But still, I couldn't be sure. I was just so anxious at this point, so nervous of that which could not be spoken. I asked my husband so many times, "Is she okay? She is going to be okay, right?" And he tried to remain optimistic, but I think we were both scared in the same way. We didn't want to speak of what could be.

To say this was completely off of my radar is an understatement. I had prepared myself for the most horrible possibility of, say, having to have a c-section, rather than natural childbirth, but the idea that she could possibly die had never even entered my consciousness. We sat in PETU waiting for the nurse to come check her heart rate. She was one of those nurses you want on your team. Loud. Brash. Calling you honey. She searched and searched. And I began to cry. She said, "Ah, honey, sometimes I can't find the heartbeat, let me get the ultrasound." The team came in, and when there were three, and my midwife, I think it began to hit me that something was really wrong. I saw her head, and then the screen panned down to her little ribs. Nothing.

"There is no heartbeat," I said it first, I think. And the doctor said those words that I never wanted to hear, "Your little girl has passed away."

I held onto my husband and we wept and wept.

After a minute, I said, "Why? How?" And then they began saying that it is nothing I could have prevented or done. It was not my fault. And that I may never know what killed my daughter. How had I gone through my whole life not knowing this? How had I managed to escape this particular insight into how cruel the world is to some parents? As though I found out that the universe picks some children to simply draw the life out of, without explanation, I felt outside of myself. I had suddenly become someone branded forever with a large frown. I just simply spoke the obvious, "My heart is broken."

She was breathing one minute, and not the next. And they explained I had to be induced. I had to bring her into this room and into the world. I began to become afraid to go through this process and eventually to see her. When I birthed my first daughter, someone asked me after a few weeks what it was like to be a mother. I said, "It is like watching your heart walk around in the world." But what if your heart is not beating?

Everyone left us to talk about our options, which were really to be induced, naturally or with epidural. They transferred us to the labor and delivery area. The nurse came in alone after the doctors and midwife left, and gave me a huge hug. "Ah, honey." And I cried on her shoulder. I had given birth in the suites, across the street. I had birthed Beatrice naturally, but based on their recommendation, I decided to have an epidural with Lucia. This was a different experience for me, and on top of the grief, my husband said he couldn't see me in physical pain. I wanted to be home with my daughter. I wanted to erase the last 72 hours, and go back to the time when I know she was alive and ask them to induce me then. I wanted to erase the pain. In the end, I am glad I opted to have the epidural. It was a good decision for me.

The next 24 hours were a lot of crying, of trying to find funny movies on the television, of trying not to be in the situation I was in. I had to call my mother, which was the hardest phone call of my life, and my twin sister, who was watching our daughter. Saying the words for the first time nearly downed me. Hearing their utter sorrow made me shudder. I kept saying to them I am sorry. I am so sorry. I was. I often said the safest place for Lucia was in my belly. But then, the worst thing that could happen happened in my belly.

They put cervadil in over night, and when I was ripened, as they said, they would begin with pitocin in the morning. Ripened. I kept thinking about that word. "Get some sleep," my midwife said. I drifted off for a couple of hours, expecting to wake sweating in my own bed, but I woke in the hospital again. And the morning began. I felt this day would be the worst day of my life. If I can survive this day, I thought, I can survive anything. Just one hour at a time today. Just one minute at a time. One breath after torturous breath.

My twin sister came to us and to attend Lucia's birth. My mother stayed with Beatrice. I hope she ends up being okay with that, because it meant she didn't get to hold Lucia. I didn't want my daughter there to see me in such a black place. In the morning, I met the nurse who would comfort us throughout the day. Oh, bless her. Debbie was a minister in the Unitarian Church, the church that married my husband and I. She told us she could perform a blessing for Lucia when she was born, and she was an incredible source of serenity and peace throughout the day. She was like an angel, as was my beautiful midwife Megan. They seemed to know exactly when to give us space, and when to say some words of healing love. I spent the day laboring, and finally got the epidural, which was welcome. It made me warm and tingly. I was thankful for the feeling.

Throughout the day, I was overwhelmed with fear of seeing Lucia dead, as though it were that which would push me over the edge and into the abyss. I also felt as though my cervix wouldn't open and let her out, because I couldn't accept this reality. I just wanted the labor and birthing to be quick. They gave me pitocin in the morning, and around five, I knew I was dully dilated, because I wanted to birth Lucia. I wanted her to come out. So I asked my sister to pull out my meditating mama-a statue I made of a pregnant woman meditating. It was to be my birthing focus point, and I made her when I was about 24 weeks along. She sat front and center in my house as I imagined birthing Lucia, and opening up for her. Now, she was sitting in front of me in this cruel place. Megan and Debbie pulled up chairs and sat peacefully. They didn't sit below me to catch Lucia, or involve themselves in this process. Lucia was gone. There was nothing to protect her from now.

The lights were very low, and my husband and sister stood at each side of me, grabbing a leg. Megan told me to push when I felt the urge. So, I did with the waves of contractions. I said to Megan, "I don't feel like my pushing is going anywhere. " So, she stood, and reached inside of me, and said, "Feel this spot?" I nodded. "Push to that spot." I tried to find my meditating mama. And I stared at her belly, full of life. I imagined opening, and pushing Lucia through me, into the light. I waited to use the contraction to help me. Lucia means light, and I thought of her entering the light. I focused on each muscle, and with my focus on the statue and Megan's spot I could isolate and push her through each of them. It didn't take many pushes, and she came out. Peacefully. Gently. No tears. No soreness. She came simply. She was beautiful. She was covered in dense vernix, but I could see how simply lovely she was. Her hair is black like mine, and her lips were perfectly mine too. And red, so red, it made me blush how perfect she was. My daughter Beatrice is the exact image of my handsome husband Sam, blue eyes, blond hair. But I knew Lucia would be my mirror, and she was. I held her to me, and just said over and over, "My sweet girl." I cried so much I soaked her. I kissed her nose. I lifted her eyelids, and the blues had no life. But her eyelids had peeled a bit and were a deep purple. My baby had violet eyes.

We held her for a few hours between the three of us. Debbie washed her, and her skin was peeling. She had been dead since Saturday. The midwife told us the only thing she could see was that her placenta was smaller than it normally should be, and the cord was placed on the side rather than the middle. It means that she might not have gotten enough nutrients, but she clarified, many babies are born healthy with this condition. Why was Lucia one of those that didn't? Debbie performed a beautiful blessing for us as we held hands and surrounded Lucia with love.

My sister left fairly soon after she was born. I think emotionally, it was all she could handle. She needed to be with her own babies, and honestly, we needed to be alone with Lucia. As I held her, I called Debbie over and asked her if she could do me a favor. She said anything. I asked if I could donate my meditating mama to the birthing suites. I couldn't look at her again, and maybe another mama can birth life into this world with her. Debbie cried and thanked me.

They let us leave five hours later. When the evening nurse took Lucia for photographs, I knew I didn't want to see her again. But my husband asked for her back. He held her for a while, and I peeked over at her. She was deteriorating, and I was disturbed to see her body wearing away. But it was also important for me. She was dead, and I needed to see her that way. I couldn't keep carrying her with me, or in me. I had to let her go and carry the memory of our short time together.

Thank you for letting me share this story with you. In the brief time, I have come to read about the births of our children, I feel such love and sadness at our shared stories. But it has been a source of comfort to know that such amazing women are supporting each other through the worst that life has to offer.


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## no5no5 (Feb 4, 2008)

Quote:


Originally Posted by *mamacita angelica* 
"It is like watching your heart walk around in the world." But what if your heart is not beating?

I don't think I have ever read anything so true and so beautiful and so horrible.









A light for your little Lucia.


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## chaoticzenmom (May 21, 2005)

I'm so sorry.


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## birthangeldoula (Feb 1, 2008)

My heart breaks for you. I'm so sorry for the loss of sweet little Lucia.


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## Vespertina (Sep 30, 2006)

I'm so very sorry for the loss of your precious Lucia. So very heartbreaking. We're here for you.














:

A lot of the details of your story remind me of mine.


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## lucky_mia (Mar 13, 2007)

I'm so sorry for the loss of your beautiful daughter.


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## lemurmommies (Jan 15, 2007)

Thank you for sharing Lucia's story with us.

There are no words to explain how sorry I am for your loss.


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## lil_stinkyfeet (Nov 12, 2006)

Thank you for sharing your story, it was beautiful..

I am sorry for your loss


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## yarngoddess (Dec 27, 2006)

Words cannot express the saddness... I'm so sorry for your loss.

I hope your story, so beautifully written, will help you and will help other's out there.

Blessings to you and your family.


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## Pearl1 (Aug 29, 2008)

thank you for sharing lucia paz with us. what a beautiful name for your beautiful girl.

i am so very sorry for your loss, mama.

~s.


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## SMR (Dec 21, 2004)

Oh Angie, Thank you for sharing Lucia with us. The pain we share is very deep, but together we can all get through it.. we never forget our babies and sharing their stories and our love for them keeps their memory alive.

btw.. I just posted before this, that I hadn't reall bawled in couple of weeks.. scratch that!


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## loraxc (Aug 14, 2003)




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## ShwarmaQueen (Mar 28, 2008)

I'm so very sorry for your loss.


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## Manessa (Feb 24, 2003)

I am so, so sorry







:


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## MPsSweetie (Jan 29, 2006)

Many, many hugs... I am so sorry for your loss.


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## Mamochka (May 29, 2008)

crying my eyes out... so so sorry... thank you for taking the time to share this... it was loving in a beautiful and sincere way... god bless you


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## mountainmummy (Sep 12, 2007)

Oh angie, I am so, so sorry. The loss of a baby is tremendous, and something that completely blindsides you. Your birth story was so moving, so touching. At one point, you said:

_To say this was completely off of my radar is an understatement. I had prepared myself for the most horrible possibility of, say, having to have a c-section, rather than natural childbirth, but the idea that she could possibly die had never even entered my consciousness_

This is so completely true. I felt this way too. Isla was going to be my vbac, and the worst possible outcome of her delivery would be another section. Death never registered on my radar either. So completely unfathomable.

I know what you mean about the shock of feeling 'outside yourself'. I felt this too, like I was watching a movie or something. This couldn't actually be happening to me... this couldn't be real.

I also felt filled with an insatiable urge to go back and rewind the last 72 hours or so...to the point where I had the first inkling something may have been wrong. To change it all. How could this be so final? How can I not fix this?

Our son is also a mirror of my husband, and as soon as Isla was born, I knew she'd look just like me. She did, uncannily so. It doubled the pain to say goodbye to such a close part of myself. The most important part of myself.

Your story touched me so much, I hope you can find comfort here, among others who are walking this path with you, and can cry with you. I'm so very sorry.


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## NullSet (Dec 19, 2004)

Quote:


Originally Posted by *mamacita angelica* 
I cried so much I soaked her.

This was me too. For some reason with my dd I did not want any of my tears to fall to the ground. I wanted them all to fall on her.

I'm so sorry, mama. Much love to you and your family.


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## shooflymama (May 23, 2005)




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## CawMama (Nov 4, 2005)

Thank you for sharing that with us. I'm so sorry.


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## michanders4 (Jul 24, 2008)

I am so sorry for your loss


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## JayJay (Aug 1, 2008)

That was a beautifully written birth story for you and your Lucia. The ladies are right here - it's so important to get that out on paper, you know? I wrote mine I think...ooh three or four days after Josie died and then several more times in the next few weeks, and it really did help such a lot to tell all about her. Helped me find peace in my very insane world at that time.

Now, it has been three months and it has become 1000% more bearable, but I think only because of sharing those first few days and talking about her and the experience, and walking into the fire. Three months and the most poignant thing that I am left with every day has to be the feeling you spoke of when you birthed your first daughter - your heart is walking around. I now feel that so strongly - I can't remember where I read it - I think in a book about infant loss and trying for another child afterward called "Trying Again" and it struck such a note with me. I do feel that, yes. And it is very difficult when the child your heart has gone with has walked across the veil into a another dimension.

At this point, my DP Harry and I are trying again. We're ready to. I hope that, perhaps, the birth of another child to us will at least allow our hearts to split in two and one half to reside with the living, tangible child. I feel your sorrow, mama. We're all here for you and please, please know that you were right - you got through that first day, and you CAN get through anything. We all heal one another here.

*HUGE hugs* mama XXXXXXXXX


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## bc1995 (Mar 22, 2004)

I am so very sorry for you loss.


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## mamaveggie (Mar 24, 2007)

I'm so sorry. The pictures from the other thread are so beautiful.


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## ratrodgrl (Nov 8, 2008)

thank you for sharing your beautiful baby with us. I am so sorry she is not with you in your arms. (((HUGS)))


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## 2goingon2 (Feb 8, 2007)

I too have never, ever, read anything so truly beautiful and heart-wrenchingly sad. I don't think I'll ever forget your story. So many blessings of peace to you and your family right now. Your strength and grace are inspiring. Blessings of love and light to your little Lucia.


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## Sanguine (Sep 8, 2006)

I'm so sorry for your loss of your beautiful Lucia.








peace and healing to you.


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## namaste_mom (Oct 21, 2005)

I read every last word of Lucia's beautiful story. My heart hurts with you mama. It is not much consolation now but....it will get better. (((HUGS)))







Lucia


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## mytwogirls (Jan 3, 2008)

You are a beautiful writer and a strong mother and woman. To say I am sorry is an understatement. I wish you peace and healing mama. Your baby girl sounds so beautiful.


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## wbg (Mar 28, 2008)

Thank you for sharing your story. I am sending you all the love and warmth and positive energy I have to wrap around you and your family during this time.
Thinking of you, your family and beautiful Lucia Paz...


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## PGTlatte (Mar 7, 2004)

I am so sorry for you loss.


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## Fireflyforever (May 28, 2008)

I am so very, very sorry that you had to say hello and goodbye to your daughter - all at the same time. It is something none of us ever wanted to do.

You write about her so beautifully and so movingly. Thank you for sharing her with us.








Lucia Paz

May the light and peace of your name reside with your mummy, daddy and big sister.


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## ObamaMama214 (Jul 22, 2008)

Oh, Mama...your story was so sad, but so beautiful at the same time. I love the middle name "Paz," and I hope you can find peace soon.

Lots of hugs


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## NicaG (Jun 16, 2006)

Peace to you and your family. I'm so sorry for your loss, thank you for sharing your story. Lucia was dearly loved.


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## mamanurse (Jan 22, 2006)

You wrote Lucia's birth story so beautifully. Thank you for sharing with us.







Lucia


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## mrsbabycakes (Sep 28, 2008)

Angie, I'm so terribly sorry. You write so well about your wonderful daughter. I'm incredibly sorry for what you've had to go through.


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## maemaemama (Oct 10, 2007)

wow, what a beautifully written birth story. i'm so sorry. your account is so touching and truthful, i bet Lucia's big sister will cherish this story too, some day. i wish you as much peace as you can find in the weeks (months, years) ahead.


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## Lemon Juice (Jun 6, 2005)

I'm so sorry for your loss
















Lucia Paz


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## bluewatergirl (Jul 26, 2007)

Thank you for telling Lucia's story. How beautiful and how heart-wrenching.
I remember the first moments I held my son - I gently opened his eyelids, too.
I just had to see his eyes . . . and he just wasn't there; his soul had flown.
Your description so brought me back, and I could feel him warm and wet in
my arms again. Thank you.
I am so very, very sorry for your loss, Mama. Peace to you.


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## diana_of_the_dunes (Dec 7, 2008)

I'm so, so very sorry for your loss. Your story was both beautiful and sad, and I can't imagine the courage it took to share with all of us. I hope you and your husband find peace and healing.


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## riversong (Aug 11, 2005)

I'm so sorry for your loss. What a beautiful story.


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## willowsmom (Oct 28, 2004)

I, too, am sorry for your loss, mama. Lucia sounds beautiful. Thank you for sharing her with us.

Much love.


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## feminist~mama (Mar 6, 2002)

Thank you for sharing your story. I'm so sorry for your loss!


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## Cuddlebaby (Jan 14, 2003)

hugs to you....read later.


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## squishymama (Jun 25, 2008)

Your eloquence is breathtaking. My heart is aching for you.


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## ivymae (Nov 22, 2005)

Thank you so much for sharing this.







For Lucia, so loved.


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## Adensmommy (Mar 14, 2006)

I was moved to tears by lucia story I am so sorry for your loss.

We lost our son Aden due to different circumstances in march of 06, and good or bad I will never be the same.

I am wishing you peaceful healing days ahead.


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## Milkymommi (Aug 29, 2003)

It breaks my heart every time I read another story... it's a tragedy we all have so much in common when recanting the events of our precious babies' births. Thank you for taking the time to share. I know how hard it is, it took me a couple of months to post mine.


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