Justice for baby Liam

Brief aan ons Engelkind, Liampie

My seun,
Die tyd stap so vinnig verby. Dit is nou al amper 14 maande van wonder hoe jy sou lyk, hoeveel tandjies jy sou hê en hoeveel woordjies jy sou sê. Waarvan sou jy gehou het en waarvan jy nie sou hou nie... Ek kan nie help om te wonder wat ons lewens met jou in sou gewees het nie.

Jy was die perfekte klein prentjie van jou pappa—sy ewebeeld, kompleet met daardie spesiale rooi hare van jou. Elke dag as ek ouma sien, dan wonder ek of ek jou ooit ’n oomblik vir myself sou kon hê wanneer jy by haar was, want sy was so so so lief vir jou. Wanneer ons by jou ander ouma gaan kuier, wonder ek ook oor watter tipe stories sy vir jou sou vertel; jou niggies en neefies kan vir ure na jou ouma sit en luister.

Wanneer ons so vir jou tannie, oom en niggie gaan kuier, sit ek en wonder hoe julle twee saam sou speel en hoe jou tannie jou net sou wou opvreet en maak lag. Wanneer ek met jou ander tannie gesels of wanneer ons kuier, wonder ek oor hoe sy jou ook sou wou opvreet en net wou bederf... Daai heerlike bederfies wat sy vir mamma so gestuur het toe jy nog in my maag was. Jy het dit altyd so geniet; met elke byt het jy geskop. Jy het ’n regte soettand gehad, nes jou pappa.

Jy het gekom met jou eie, unieke persoonlikheid en jou eie gunsteling-musiek. Jou absolute gunsteling-song was Coat of Many Colors van Dolly Parton, en jy was mal oor die liedjie Jy is my alles. Dit het altyd so wild gegaan in my maag as daardie musiek gespeel het. Jy het mamma se stem geken en jy het geweet hoe bitter baie ons jou liefhet.

My seun, ek het gedink dit sal makliker raak, dat die seer ’n bietjie minder sou raak toe ons jou by Jesus se voete gelê het. Maar daar is nie een enkele dag wat mamma en pappa nie van jou praat nie. Ons wonder elke dag wat sou jy nou gedoen het... Sou jy steeds op pappa se bors of in sy arms wou lê en animation kyk, of sou jy wou speel tot ver oor jou slaaptyd?

My seun, die vrae is so baie en die antwoorde so min. Weet net ons sal jou vir altyd in ons harte dra en van jou praat; niemand sal jou ooit vergeet nie. Jy is en was ons ou Liampie. Die seer is nog bitter rou, maar ons weet jy rus sag by Jesus se voete, my seun.

Ons is bitter baie lief vir jou, ons engelkind.

🥺💔💔🥺

Empty Arms At Dora Nginza Hospital

The air in the theater was cold, a sharp contrast to the heat of the labor ward. I lay there, exhausted from days of begging for help, my body trembling not just from the spinal block, but from the weight of everything I had endured since the 12th of May.

Even then, in the sterile white light, the kindness I craved was absent. As they prepared me for surgery, the staff spoke over me as if I were a ghost. There was no "It’s going to be okay, Justine," or "We’re going to meet Liam now." There was only the clinking of metal instruments and the hushed, urgent tones of a team finally realizing they were racing against a clock that had already run out.

At 22:09 PM on the 15th of May, the surgery began. I waited for the sound that every mother dreams of—that first, sharp cry that signals life, breath, and the beginning of a journey.

But the room stayed silent.

The silence was heavier than the pain of the contractions. I saw the panicked exchange of looks between the nurses. I saw the doctor’s hands moving with a frantic energy that came far too late. They whisked my baby boy away to a corner, a flurry of green scrubs surrounding him.

"Is he okay?" I whispered, my voice cracking. No one looked at me. "Is Liam okay?"

Minutes felt like hours. Finally, a doctor approached. There was no softness in his eyes, only the cold reality of a tragedy that didn't have to happen. He told me they were trying to resuscitate him. He told me my healthy, 41-week-old baby boy was fighting for his life because he had been inside too long, struggling against a body that was ready to let him go while the hospital doors remained metaphorically locked.

They eventually brought him to me, but not in the way a mother should hold her newborn. Liam was still. He was perfect—ten fingers, ten toes, a face that looked just like his father—but he was silent.

The "emergency" C-section they finally granted me wasn't a rescue; it was a post-script to days of negligence. As I lay in recovery, ignored once again by the staff who had laughed at my pain just hours before, I realized that I wasn't just mourning my son. I was mourning the loss of my dignity, which they had stripped away piece by piece on those hard plastic chairs.
Liam didn't die because of a "family history" or because I "didn't push hard enough." He died because, in a place meant for healing, we were treated as inconveniences rather than human beings.

The air in Ward B3 was thick with a grief that no mother should ever have to carry alone. I sat on the edge of a bed that felt like a mountain, my body half-numb from failed epidurals and my heart entirely shattered. Around me, the sounds of new life—the cries of babies and the hushed voices of laboring mothers—were like salt in a fresh wound.

"He has his father’s red hair," I whispered to the shadows. The nurses had tried to tell me it was brown, a final, cold attempt to deny me even the smallest truth about my son. But I had seen him. Liam was real. He was perfect. And he was gone because time had been treated as a suggestion rather than a lifeline.

The morning of the 16th brought no comfort, only a desperate need to flee. When my family finally fought their way inside, the truth came out not in whispers, but in the devastating admission of a doctor: it wasn't my body that failed. It was the delay. The "emergency" had been created by hours of waiting on chairs and being told "you're fine" while the clock ran out.

But the nightmare didn't end with the surgery. When I begged to go home, to escape the sight of other mothers holding what I had lost, the system turned its teeth on me once more.

"The police will come to your house," a nurse hissed, her voice a weapon. "It will be ugly. You won't get a death certificate. You can never come back here."

I looked at her, and for the first time, I wasn't afraid. I had already endured the worst thing a person could face. Their threats were hollow compared to the silence of my son.

On the 19th of May, I returned to claim him. I stood in the sterile hallway with the funeral parlor paperwork in my hand, ready to take Liam to his final resting place. I just wanted to see him one last time. To touch the red hair they said didn't exist.

The nurse walked away and returned with a look that turned my blood to ice.

"We can't find him," she said.

The world stopped. In a place that had already taken his life, they had now misplaced his body. I stood there, a mother with empty arms, realizing that at Dora Nginza, even the dead were not afforded dignity.

A Message of Hope and Prayer for My Fellow Mothers

Good evening, sisters. I wanted to reach out and check on you.

The past three weeks have been the hardest of my life. I’ve struggled to find a way to cope, and not a single minute has passed without my son being on my mind. I was drowning in "why" questions—blaming myself for things I thought I could have done differently, and feeling the heavy weight of things left unsaid.

For a while, I tried to stay "strong" by locking my emotions away. But grief is a powerful thing; eventually, it hit me so hard that I felt like I’d fallen into a dark hole with no way out. I felt like I had lost control of my world. I kept seeing the birth over and over—feeling that same helplessness, that same heartbreak of not being able to save my child.
But in that darkness, God whispered
Jeremiah 29:11 to my heart:
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

I am finally ready to stand up again. I am choosing to deal with this pain differently, leaning on His promise instead of my own strength.
To every special lady here: Keep your faith. When you feel like you are failing or the darkness is too much, go to your knees. God is there, and He will come through for you. You are never walking this path alone.

A Closing Prayer for Us

Heavenly Father, I lift up every mother whose heart is breaking tonight. Lord, You see the tears shed in silence and the empty space that no one else can see. We ask that You wrap Your loving arms around us and be our refuge when the waves of grief feel too high.

Forgive our confusion and our "why" questions, and replace our self-blame with Your perfect peace. Give us the supernatural strength to take just one more step today. We trust that our children are safe in Your care, and we hold onto the hope that You are still writing our stories.

In Jesus' name, Amen.

A Quiet Love, A Lasting Bond

The world was waiting for your breath,
For tiny hands and downy hair,
Instead, we faced the sting of death
And heavy silence in the air.
I carry weights of "if" and "why,"
And echoes of the things they said—
That I am where the fault must lie,
In broken paths where I was led.
But, oh my son, if love could heal,
Or willpower could mend the frame,
You’d know the touch of what is real,
And hear us whisper soft your name.
My body was your only home,
A sheltered place I tried to keep,
And though you had to walk alone
Into a long and quiet sleep—
It wasn't for a lack of heart,
Or that I didn't fight the tide;
We simply had to be apart,
With nothing left to do but guide.
So rest now in the arms of Grace,
Beyond the reach of pain and fear,
Until we see your radiant face
And hold the one we cherish here.
For though your life had just begun,
And though we feel we failed the test,
You are our child, our little son,
And God knows that we gave our best.

My son Liam Noah Botha
Forever in our hearts

Hi everyone 🤍 This community is a safe space to honor and remember babies lost too soon. Here, we share, grieve, and support one another with love and understanding. You are not alone, and your baby’s memory is cherished.
Whether your loss is recent or many years ago, whether you feel ready to speak or prefer to sit quietly and read, you belong here. This is a place for tenderness, honesty, questions, tears, faith, doubt, and everything in between. We walk this valley together—one step at a time—holding space for each other and for the precious lives who will always matter.
You are seen. You are welcome. And you do not have to carry this alone 🤍

COMMUNITY https://chat.whatsapp.com/E6DZJh7GYPJBiv9oeVR8y3

FB GROUP https://www.facebook.com/share/g/17e8uCPBbR/



Thank you for creating the chat group Gabriela González