If she had lived, she would be 30 years old.
Our daughter, Lydia, was born on October 26, 1982.
Frank was still in the Navy and we had orders to the Philippines.
In my fifth month of pregnancy, during a routine ultrasound, it was discovered through the amount of amnionic fluid that was being produced, that there was a problem with her kidneys. The Navy knew they didn't have the medical services needed for a high risk pregnancy and birth in the Philippines, so Frank's orders were delayed and we stayed in Maryland through her birth.
I had a c-section with Ben, so we knew I would have another with this baby. It was scheduled and Lydia was delivered. All of 6 lbs. 7 oz, born a month premature.
It was then discovered that she had six major medical issues, all of which could have potentially been corrected with surgery, expect one. She was born with one kidney, and that one was malfunctioning.
Ben was a year old, staying with my mom back at our apartment. She was so good with him. At 13 months old, she taught him how to salute and say "sister."
We were hospitalized two hours away at Bethesda Naval Medical Hospital, where I was on the ward, and Lydia was in the neonatal intensive care unit.
The most critical babies were kept nearest the front door, which is where her crib was. I was discharged after a week, and when I went back to the hospital to see her, she was not up front where she had been. I panicked, until I was directed to her, as she had been moved to the back of the room.
As much as we prayed and cried and wished for her recovery, it was clear when she was about ten days old, that she would not make it. I should say, it is clear now, but then, even as she lost weight with each passing day, we were still hopeful that she would pull through.
On day 14, on my way back home after being with her all day, my mom got the call that she had passed away. I was heartbroken, but I was grateful that the last time I saw her, she was alive.
We had a funeral service. It was a blur.
Family and friends tried to soothe me by pretending that nothing happened, when all I wanted to do was scream that she had lived, and to remember her, and talk about her.
People deal with death differently. I know now folks were doing what they thought was best.
After a couple of months, her headstone was placed on her burial plot. We went to see it. Without a doubt, it was one of the hardest days of my life. Even harder than the funeral. Somehow that headstone, with her name, her birthdate and the day she died, made it all too final.
No mother should ever have to bury her child.
The doctors advised us to wait at least a year before attempting to get pregnant again, but I knew I needed to be pregnant right away, or I would have been too afraid later on. And so, less than a year later, Frankie was born. Also premature, but otherwise healthy.
Thank God.
Our daughter, Lydia, was born on October 26, 1982.
Frank was still in the Navy and we had orders to the Philippines.
In my fifth month of pregnancy, during a routine ultrasound, it was discovered through the amount of amnionic fluid that was being produced, that there was a problem with her kidneys. The Navy knew they didn't have the medical services needed for a high risk pregnancy and birth in the Philippines, so Frank's orders were delayed and we stayed in Maryland through her birth.
I had a c-section with Ben, so we knew I would have another with this baby. It was scheduled and Lydia was delivered. All of 6 lbs. 7 oz, born a month premature.
It was then discovered that she had six major medical issues, all of which could have potentially been corrected with surgery, expect one. She was born with one kidney, and that one was malfunctioning.
Ben was a year old, staying with my mom back at our apartment. She was so good with him. At 13 months old, she taught him how to salute and say "sister."
We were hospitalized two hours away at Bethesda Naval Medical Hospital, where I was on the ward, and Lydia was in the neonatal intensive care unit.
The most critical babies were kept nearest the front door, which is where her crib was. I was discharged after a week, and when I went back to the hospital to see her, she was not up front where she had been. I panicked, until I was directed to her, as she had been moved to the back of the room.
As much as we prayed and cried and wished for her recovery, it was clear when she was about ten days old, that she would not make it. I should say, it is clear now, but then, even as she lost weight with each passing day, we were still hopeful that she would pull through.
On day 14, on my way back home after being with her all day, my mom got the call that she had passed away. I was heartbroken, but I was grateful that the last time I saw her, she was alive.
We had a funeral service. It was a blur.
Family and friends tried to soothe me by pretending that nothing happened, when all I wanted to do was scream that she had lived, and to remember her, and talk about her.
People deal with death differently. I know now folks were doing what they thought was best.
After a couple of months, her headstone was placed on her burial plot. We went to see it. Without a doubt, it was one of the hardest days of my life. Even harder than the funeral. Somehow that headstone, with her name, her birthdate and the day she died, made it all too final.
No mother should ever have to bury her child.
The doctors advised us to wait at least a year before attempting to get pregnant again, but I knew I needed to be pregnant right away, or I would have been too afraid later on. And so, less than a year later, Frankie was born. Also premature, but otherwise healthy.
Thank God.
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