Noemi’s Story

I have always wanted to be a mother. Ever since I was little, I imagined having at least two children and having them when I was young. But life has a way of disrupting our plans, and in the end, I made the decision to become a single mother at the age of 38. I started the process at the hospital and in June 2024, I got pregnant on my first try. I couldn’t believe it. It had been so easy that I couldn’t believe it: I was pregnant! I was happy, nervous, terrified… But above all, I was happy, very happy.

The pregnancy was great from day one. I didn’t have the typical discomforts that they always tell you you’re going to have: no dizziness, no vomiting, no fatigue… Everything was perfect and all the check-ups went well, so I went on with my life, happy and without worrying about anything, innocent.

Until suddenly one morning in late October, at work, I got up from my chair and noticed that I was bleeding, bleeding heavily. I got very nervous, but at the same time I thought that nothing bad could happen to us, that I would go to the hospital and they would fix everything. But that wasn’t the case: the faces of the doctors and nurses who were treating me didn’t bode well. They admitted me and I spent the four worst days of my life (I didn’t know then that there were many more to come). I was on an emotional roller coaster because one ultrasound scan told me that things weren’t going well, but the next one didn’t look so bad, that with complete rest I could save my pregnancy. Until the ultrasound scan that changed everything: my son was already very low down, ready to be born, and there was nothing that could be done… My world fell apart. How could this be happening to us? The week before, I had gone for my 20-week check-up and they had told me that everything was fine and that I was going to have a boy, a perfectly healthy boy. How could we be in this situation now? I couldn’t understand it, I still don’t understand it, to be honest, I don’t think I ever will.

They gave me medication to induce labour, and on 2 November 2024 at 3:43 p.m., my son Enol was born. Much earlier than expected, much earlier than his due date of 8 March 2025.

My whole life fell apart. It was going to be the two of us, the two of us always together, and now I was alone again. But now it’s not the same, now I’m lonelier than ever: he’s not with me and he never will be, at least not in this world.

As I said, his name is Enol, like one of the lakes in Covadonga, in the Picos de Europa (Asturias, Spain), one of the most beautiful places there is and one to which I have always been linked through my family. Today, part of his ashes rest in that wonderful place.

Enol’s birth was the worst and the best moment of my life. There’s no need to explain why it was the worst moment, but there is a need to explain why it was the best: I remember crying a lot because I knew he wasn’t going to survive, but at the same time I remember feeling such immense love, a love I had never felt before.

After giving birth and having a paediatrician examine my son, we were able to spend some time together. My parents were also able to come and meet him and say goodbye. It was a very difficult moment, but also one filled with love. I held him, looked at him, smelled him, kissed him… I didn’t want to forget anything about him; I wanted to keep that moment in my mind and heart forever.

I especially remember the kindness of one of the midwives who cared for me; she was like a ray of light in the midst of so much darkness. She supported me and helped me a lot, reassuring me in my decision to see Enol and take photos with him, to create memories that would later help me in the grieving process. They also gave me a box of mementos, with his little hat, his hand and foot prints, a piece of his umbilical cord… Small gestures that help a lot.

After losing Enol, I received a lot of support from my parents and a friend. They were my refuge and the people who helped me not to sink any further, the ones I clung to in order to try to get out of the hole. I felt very lost, very empty (I felt a huge, physical emptiness in my arms, which no longer held my son and would never hold him again). There were moments of anger too: why had this happened to us? We didn’t deserve it! Little by little, with their help, that of my psychologist and that of other mothers who had also lost a child, I began to understand that this is not about deserving… That this happens and no one is to blame.

After Enol’s death, I thought I would never want to try again. I felt that just thinking about it was betraying my son, as if I were going to forget him by wanting to be a mother again. It took me a long time to understand that this wasn’t the case, that Enol would always have a place in my life and that having another child would never replace him. And so, little by little, I started the whole process again to try to be a mother once more.

I think about my son every single day, several times a day. I miss him constantly and feel a twinge in my heart when I do things I planned to do with him… I have a space for him in my living room, with our photo and little things I’ve made for him. I also knit blankets for an association that helped me a lot with all the paperwork after his death, so that they can make memory boxes for other families going through this. This helps me a lot because, even though those blankets aren’t for him, I feel like in a way they are, that everything I would be knitting for him I am doing for other mums who need those memories of their children. And it’s also a way to remember him, to keep his presence alive, to get something good out of all this chaos.

I don’t know if I’m ready yet to give advice or guide others through this difficult process… Especially because when you’re going through it, especially at the beginning, you don’t believe anything anyone tells you. You don’t believe you’ll ever laugh again, enjoy something you used to like, or want to spend time with your friends, because everything around you is chaos and darkness, a loneliness so absolute that no company can remedy it, because the only company you want is the one you’re missing and will never have again: your son or daughter. But I would like you to know that, little by little, the survival instinct we all have pulls us out of that absolute sadness. And that, although it is true that nothing will ever be the same again, we will never be those innocent people again, we will manage to laugh and enjoy the little things in life.

I promised Enol that I would move forward for him, and I repeat that to myself every day. Not wanting to let my son down has made me work very hard to become myself again, a different me, but I have become myself again.