Molly’s Story

Just ten days before our due date, we lost our sweet Lydia. 

We spent a beautiful day with our then two year old son, Anthony, visiting a local farm, trying to soak in the last days together as a family of three. The post-Christmas and New Years sluggishness was in full effect, and we wanted to get outside and spend some time together, especially as the weather was predicting the first snowfall of the year in Baltimore. 

Our hospital bags were packed, the car seat was installed, the nursery–a magical lemon themed room–was finished. I had waited my whole life to be a girl mom, and my moment was almost here. 

That afternoon, things simply felt off. There was no pain or outwards signs of something being wrong, just a gut feeling coupled with less movement than normal from Lydia. Convinced I had simply overdone it that day, I napped and relaxed the rest of the day. By the time we put our son to bed, I noted to my husband Nick that I hadn’t felt Lydia move in some time. We tried some of her favorite things to coax her into giving us some kicks: some ice cream, a belly rub, talking to her. Unable to do so, we called Labor and Delivery. Decreased fetal movement. We were instructed to come in and get checked out, just in case. 

Everything from that moment turned into a blur. Family came over to watch our son, bags went into the car, and my husband and I went to the hospital. The whole time, I was apologetic that I was overreacting and that surely, nothing was wrong. I wasn’t in labor, everything was fine, we’d be home before we knew it. 

On our drive, flurries began to fall. 

When we arrived, the nurse left my husband in the waiting room and brought me into the intake room. When the small doppler was swapped for a larger ultrasound machine, and one nurse became several doctors, I cried for my husband to be brought in. I was the one to tell him “there’s no heartbeat,” words that hadn’t been spoken to me yet by the doctors. 

We spent the next 30 hours preparing to meet our sleeping daughter. How could we welcome her into this world? What could we possibly do or say to prepare ourselves, our families, our two year old son for this? 

The next morning, the city was coated in a thick blanket of snow. Like us, the world was stuck in that in between place, when all there is to do is cuddle up and be with each other. 

That evening, I gave birth to our sweet girl. We held her, told her how much we loved her, and embraced the only family time we would have here together on earth. 

After we lost Lydia, we threw ourselves into the arms of our friends and family. We continue to be without answers from doctors about what went wrong. 

One year after losing Lydia, we decided to try again for a baby. We became pregnant again quickly with our son and we anxiously await his arrival this fall. 

Even as we continue to grow our family, the grief of losing her will never subside. Our grief coexists and intertwines with all of the other emotions we have for our growing family. While Lydia is not here with us, she is very much a beloved member of our family.

Molly wears a white dress and the rainbow skirt.  She holds her pregnant belly with both hands.

Molly wears a white dress and the rainbow skirt.  She sits on the ground and holds her pregnant belly with both hands.

Molly wears the rainbow skirt.  A doll sits on her lap and she holds a sign that says "Lydia"

Molly wears a white dress and the rainbow skirt.  There are trees in the background.

You can follow Molly on Instagram at mollylabricciosa.

Photos taken by Mary Gorry Photography.

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2 thoughts on “Molly’s Story”

  1. Molly, watching you and Nick travel this journey, each in your own unique ways, but supportive of each other, has been truly inspiring. As your mom, I will never forget the pain of Lydia’s loss and watching you suffer without being able to relieve you of the agony you were enduring. I love you beyond words and am so proud of your bravery in sharing your story.

  2. Heather Wooldridge

    Your strength and honesty in the aftermath of your loss was inspiring. Ever the teacher you taught us all how to talk to you about your loss and how not to. Love that you are continuing to teach others by sharing your story. Bless you!

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