Margarida - 29.12.2003

I became a mother for the first time 21 years ago, the moment I found out I was expecting you. I cried with happiness when I saw the positive test. Your father could hardly believe it — we were over the moon.

Your pregnancy was wonderful; we talked to you a lot, sang to you, and lived through unforgettable days. Your grandmother was ecstatic. Because of my age, we had an amniocentesis test, which confirmed that you were a healthy, vibrant baby girl. Sometimes it felt too good to be true.

At 37 weeks, there was a day when I didn’t feel you move, so we went to the emergency department at the Alfredo da Costa Maternity Hospital (MAC). I heard the words that still send a chill down my spine: “the baby’s heart isn’t beating.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was admitted for labour induction, and you were born two days later. I didn’t want an epidural — I wanted to feel you.

The doctor who had cared for us throughout the pregnancy insisted that I shouldn’t see you, and in the state of shock I was in, I didn’t. That decision left me with a lifelong regret. I was told you were beautiful by two of the nurses who saw you. You were born at 9.20 pm (I often look at the clock at that time — it’s not intentional), and the next morning your father arranged your funeral alone. That always hurt me, and still does. An autopsy confirmed the cause of death was the umbilical cord having wound itself three times around your neck.

Family and friends advised me not to go to your funeral; not going was unthinkable, so I went and it was the best decision I could have made.

For the eleven months that followed, I was a husk of myself. Your father was my anchor, my greatest support. The psychologist at MAC also played a crucial role by helping me from the very beginning.

There was a time when I was afraid I might forget you—as if that were even possible, my dear little flower. You will always be with me.

A year later, I became pregnant with your brother. We were overjoyed, but full of fear — especially when we went in for scans. He was a rascal; on Saturdays (the day you passed), he’d only start moving later in the day, and off we’d rush to MAC. With the psychologist’s help, I developed strategies to block out negative thoughts. I often told myself that no matter how the pregnancy ended, I would live it to the fullest, just like I did with you. You taught me that time truly is a gift that we must not waste. And at 38 weeks, your brother was born full of life, health, and appetite.

Not seeing you or holding you left me with an immense guilt, as if I had rejected you. For a long time, I used to dream that I was searching for your face. Some time after your father passed away, eight years ago, I dreamt that he came to me holding you in his arms, placed you in mine, and told me that it was you. That dream brought me peace, as did the dreams your brother had about you. I only began to let go of that guilt nearly twenty years later, with the help of the “Pais Coragem” support group. But I will always miss the hugs and kisses I never got to give you.

Over these 21 years, I’ve thought every day about what you would be like if you were here. I believe you’d be a girl full of self-esteem, with a loving and protective father and brother, and a passion for animals.

I’ve learned that grief is a path full of highs and lows. I’ve learned to accept sadness and emptiness when they come — they’re part of the endless love I feel for you, just like the joy of remembering the precious moments of your pregnancy.

Your death didn’t make me stronger — and that was clear when your father passed — but I know I’m far more resilient than I ever thought I could be.

This wasn’t the life I wished for. But I believe, for some reason, this is my path. I’ve stopped asking “why?” — and that has been liberating.

I now put things into perspective and value the present moment more.

Aside from “Pais Coragem”, your brother is the one person I talk to about you. He’s there on your special dates, and you’re present in our lives too. He’s an extraordinary boy who’s taught me so much, including how to live with pain without living in pain. I’m terrified of losing him too — I have to do a lot of mental work to manage that fear. I know it’s a completely normal fear, and that helps.

I was blessed to have you and your brother (I can’t imagine not being your mum), and your dad, who gave me the best part of both of us — our children.

Margarida's mum