The Annual Reminder of Maternal Deaths in Mexico
Every year, on May 10th in Mexico’s calendar, the day is marked with flowers, serenades, emotional songs, and tributes. Mothers are celebrated with gratitude, idealization, and hearty family feasts. However, amidst the festive speeches, a ritualistic reminder of women still dying from pregnancy-related causes appears. This annual commemoration, while well-intentioned, can be seen as insufficient and almost superficial, as it only acknowledges a tragedy that demands sustained reflection.
The Author’s Perspective
The author believes that annually addressing maternal deaths can be inconvenient for many families. It transforms a structural injustice into a fleeting gesture, highlighting a tragedy that requires continuous contemplation. Although the author agrees with Nancy Scheper-Hughes that “remembering is a form of justice,” recalling the tragedy serves as a historical reminder and a means of reparation against future occurrences. However, the author disapproves of commemorating maternal deaths on Mother’s Day, as it trivializes the gravity of the situation.
Beyond the Commemorative Date
Once this symbolic day passes, we can openly discuss women who die not because of motherhood but due to inadequate or delayed access to quality care. These women perish because of the scarcity and poor quality of public and private healthcare services. Often, their suffering occurs out of public view in rural communities, overwhelmed hospitals, or arduous travel conditions.
The Complexity of Maternal Mortality
Reducing this phenomenon to a commemorative date, even with good intentions, minimizes its complexity. Maternal deaths should concern us daily, not just when an annual figure provides international governance context. It’s crucial to view it as a persistent symptom of a failing system that continues to fail those who give life.
Avoidable Deaths: Between Numbers and Grief
In 2023, Mexico officially reports a maternal mortality ratio (MMR) of 32 per 100,000 live births (INEGI). While this may seem reasonable to health authorities as it has decreased by 14% from the previous year, showing a downward trend, it’s essential to consider that this figure represents a persistent failure of the system for those who bring life into the world.
Beyond Official Statistics
What happens outside official statistics? Imagine a woman dying during childbirth. She was 28, lived in a marginalized city area, had two other children, and an unplanned pregnancy. She arrived at the hospital after waiting for a taxi that never came, pale and in labor, bleeding, with her water broken. It was a 36-week pregnancy; she was hypotensive, and her lips were dry. The hemorraging was rapid. The unit lacked sufficient blood availability, and there was no anesthesiologist available for emergency surgery. She died in the delivery room, and so did her newborn, who couldn’t be resuscitated. The statistics will record “postpartum hemorrhage” (O72 CIE10) for her and “asphyxia with respiratory distress at birth” (P21 CIE10) for the baby. However, her six-year-old daughter doesn’t understand codes; she only knows that mom isn’t coming back and lost a sibling.
The Human Cost of Maternal Mortality
According to INEGI, 774 women died in 2023 due to pregnancy-related causes, equating to two deaths per day. Most were young (51% under 30) and indigenous (18.5%). According to WHO, CDC, OECD, and SSA, between 80-85% of these deaths are preventable. Statistics are necessary for public policy and budgeting, but they fail to capture the aftermath of loss. They don’t measure silence or listen to those left behind.
The Ripple Effect of Maternal Loss
What remains is the third-person experience: that of the family, community, or child now caring for a sibling. A mother’s death doesn’t end with the burial; it leaves partial or complete orphanhood, a grandparent reverting to parenthood at 78, a father abandoned or broken by the loss of a spouse, and a care system in disarray. It’s about grief but also family reorganization—who now takes on her responsibilities? Who names her memory?
Historical Context and Language
Historically, maternal orphanhood was a recognized category. Jean-Jacques Rousseau lost his mother at birth, and Charles Dickens wrote “Oliver Twist” in 1838, critically portraying Victorian England. In Latin America, colonial and republican censuses noted “child of a deceased mother,” “foundling,” or “fostered child” since the birth certificate was the source. There was a consciousness, sometimes harsh and sometimes protective, that maternal death wasn’t just a loss but a social fracture. Today, however, statistical language tends to render these consequences invisible.
The Need for Balanced Language
We need both statistics that warn, denounce, and guide resources, as well as narratives that humanize, make visible, and aim to repair. We require a bridge between the two: a way to discuss maternal deaths that doesn’t get stuck between counting and forgetting. Each number has a name, each name tells a story, and every story bears an unhealed wound that updating figures or official statistical reports cannot mend.
Beyond Commemoration
Writing about maternal deaths on Mother’s Day is insufficient and sometimes even intrusive. Honoring a deceased mother with flowers doesn’t suffice; instead, we must ensure no other woman endures the same fate. Maternal deaths cannot be confined to a commemorative date; they require memory, vigilance, investment, and commitment. Anything less is mere simulation.
*The author is a Tenured Professor in the Department of Public Health, Faculty of Medicine, UNAM, and an Emeritus Professor in the Department of Health Measurement Sciences, University of Washington. The opinions expressed in this article do not represent the position of the institutions where the author works.
[email protected]; [email protected]; @DrRafaelLozano
