Like many first-time moms, I felt my motherhood journey truly began the day I found out I was pregnant. Something inside me shifted. Every moment of the day, I carried the awareness that two hearts were beating inside me. I cherished the peaceful times spent with my belly as it grew.
I felt both glowing and full of life.
During my 20-week anatomy scan, I learned that I had placenta previa.
My doctor reassured me that most cases resolve on their own. The main risk was bleeding, and he explained it often happens in phases. We hoped to make it far into pregnancy before any issues arose. If the placenta didn’t move enough, the “worst case” would be a planned C-section at 37 weeks. I was put on pelvic rest—no sex, no strenuous activity and told to “keep living life.” For weeks, everything went smoothly. We painted the nursery, prepared for my maternity leave, and planned our baby shower.
But at 27 weeks and 4 days, everything changed. On a rainy Sunday afternoon, I woke from a nap and discovered I was hemorrhaging heavily. My fiancé rushed me to the hospital. The nurse who admitted me was calm and reassuring, but I could sense concern as my bleeding continued. The doctors readied me for the chance of an early delivery, giving me magnesium to help safeguard my baby’s brain.
Within minutes, my body reacted badly, I became weak, my blood pressure dropped, and my son’s heart rate began to fall.
In less than four hours, I was rushed into emergency surgery under general anesthesia. Our son, Lorenzo Francisco, entered the world at 8:38 p.m.
I didn’t wake for two hours because I had lost so much blood and needed massive transfusions. When I finally opened my eyes, the neonatologist explained Lorenzo was in the NICU. Even in my fear at that moment, I truly felt like a mother.
The days that followed were overwhelming. We learned about monitors, tubes, and medical terms. The NICU nurse who tended to Lorenzo also checked in on me, showing care and concern for my well-being.
On his fourth day of life, I was discharged. Leaving the hospital without him was gut-wrenching. I went home with full arms of milk to pump, but an empty house. My only way to physically care for him was pumping every two hours, then driving 18 miles each day to sit by his side.
On his tenth day, our nightmare deepened. Lorenzo developed an infection in his lung that turned out to be MRSA. The next 48 hours were unbearable. We barely ate or slept. All we could do was pray and hold on. On the twelfth day, we received a call urging us to come quickly. We rushed to the NICU in silence, terrified of what we’d find. By God’s grace, Lorenzo had stabilized a little. That same day, we were able to baptize him with our parents present, a sacred, bittersweet moment.
But two days later, on June 11, 2021, surrounded by doctors and nurses, Lorenzo’s short journey ended. We held him as he took his last breath. The staff helped us create memories: tiny handprints, footprints, locks of hair, and his hospital blanket. We left with only a bag of belongings where our son should have been. At home, everything felt dark and empty. My body still produced milk, reminding me of what was gone. My husband carefully emptied it for me, his calm strength supporting us through it all.
In the weeks that followed, we survived hour by hour. We planned a funeral, chose cremation, and picked an urn. Somehow, love gave us the strength to honor our son in every decision. I realized there were other families like ours parents surviving the unimaginable loss of a child.
Surviving, for me, meant connecting with those families. Together we found healing. From my grief, I started Courage in Time Inc., a nonprofit dedicated to helping families navigate the loss of an infant.
We send bereavement boxes, resources, and connections to grieving parents. Since launching in 2022, we’ve supported more than 170 families. Our strength comes from honoring our children, even in their absence.
To every family who has experienced loss, I want to express this: we are deeply sorry you have felt this kind of pain.
You are not alone. There is no right way to walk this road, and none of this is your fault. We send you gentle love and courage, as we survive together one moment at a time.
