My precious daughter Amélie Charlotte Tewkesbury was born at 36 weeks by emergency C-section on March 6th, 2005 (Mother's Day!) and sadly died a mere 11 days later on March 17th, 2005.
I feel very privileged to have had those 11 very special days, but feel utterly destroyed now that she is no longer with us. Inexplicably, she stopped moving inside me and was therefore starved of oxygen temporarily, resulting in a coma from which she never woke up.
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She spent the whole of her life in the SCBU of Arrowe Park Hospital on the Wirral, where I'd gone to spend a couple of days with friends, so a long way from home and while my husband Martin was skiing in France.
She never managed to breathe for herself, so we had to let her go. She died in our arms, and I'm glad we were able to say goodbye in our hospital room, funded by SANDS, without any of the tubes she had needed in her incubator - she looked like a proper little baby girl for the first time, as she was dying.
Life for us will never be the same again, and in my more philosophical moments, I know that time will ease the pain, but we have some desperate days and life seems utterly futile at times - the things that seemed important to us before Amélie's early arrival now seem pointless.
All either of us want is another little person to pour our love into, but I don't want to be pregnant again, I just want the end result. It's so sad - I loved being pregnant with Amélie, but as my pregnancy was normal and her blood tests and mine completely normal immediately after her birth, I'm scared. I know too much now about all the things that CAN go wrong in pregnancy and regularly do, but are hushed from most of us.
Nothing can describe the pain of losing a child, having her die in your arms. She was beautiful and perfect and will always be our first-born little girl. We miss her and the dreams we had for our little family.
This is the letter Sarah wrote to Amélie the day she and Martin were told their daughter would not survive. Two days later Amélie died.
Dearest Amélie,
As I sit here by your incubator, I feel very proud to be your Mummy, and Daddy and I are privileged to have you as our precious daughter. No-one knows why you're so ill, and James told us yesterday that you wouldn't cope without the machines you're on at the moment.
So Daddy and I have decided to spend as much time as we can with you, cuddling you and memorising every millimetre of your perfect little body. You've got Daddy's ears, big feet and long legs, his dimpled chin, my slim waist and long back, and the most beautiful deep midnight blue eyes imaginable.
We've had a rollercoaster of emotions since you were born last Sunday March 6th weighing 2.36 kg, but the most overwhelming emotion throughout has been absolute unconditional, overpowering love - if there were anything Daddy and I could do to make you better and keep you with us, we'd do it without hesitation.
You've touched many people during your time here at Arrowe Park - all the consultants and nurses have said what a perfect, beautiful girl you are. And you can't begin to imagine how much you are loved by the rest of the family who've met you - Nonna and JB, Nanna, Duncan, Sarah and Rob. They've bought you some lovely little dresses that you look incredibly gorgeous in, and some Easter bunnies to watch over you while we try to sleep upstairs in the Snowdrop Room. We're going to plant snowdrops to make an Amélie garden at Chartershall, Horseshoes, Chiswick and Wimbledon and will make a huge photo album of all the photos we've taken of you.
You're absolutely unique and irreplaceable, and will always be loved, remembered and adored by us all. One day we'll tell your siblings all about our special beautiful little lady that we've had the privilege of knowing.
It will be very difficult to say Goodbye when we have to, but you'll always be there in our hearts and minds. Sleep well little lady. We'll always love and treasure you, Mummy and Daddy xxxxx
Ode To Amélie
My heart cries out in agony
Just knowing you're not there
The aching pain increasing still
The ill beyond repair.
I held you close and cherished
Our eleven special days
It hurts so much to know
That you're now beyond my gaze.
My mother's love, my precious girl
Will never disappear
I hope the pain will lessen though
Each week, each month, each year.
Amélie, my first-born child
A wriggler in the womb
Your problems' cause we'll never know
Our lives it does consume.
A wanted child, intended
Our product born of love
You'll always be a part of us
Now in the stars above.
Amélie 6th - 17th March 2005
© Sarah Speake
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