Ollie is involved in every aspect of my life, he’s my child that I still carry with me, always in my heart.

I have told this story many times, but somehow, I never get tired of telling it. Because as a bereaved parent, these stories are sometimes all we have to tell. We don’t have accounts of birthday parties, of first steps of first smiles of feeding. We don’t have tales of first days at school or days out at the park. Our stories are different, and there is so much more to Ollie’s story than how he died. But I also want to talk about life as a bereaved parent, because Ollie is involved in every aspect of my life, he’s my child that I still carry with me, always in my heart. His story did not end that day, it just began.

Ollie was my first baby, a much planned for, loved and wanted baby. My pregnancy was low risk and I had minimal complications throughout the 9 months we spent together. However, towards the end of my pregnancy, I had a number of episodes of reduced movement. We always attended maternity assessment where Ollie met criteria every time and we were discharged. A scan was requested at 39 weeks due to yet another period of reduced movement, but the scan showed no issues or concerns.

But checks always came back clear, his CTG’s were always normal and there was no clinical rationale to induce, except my gut instinct.

This should have triggered an Obstetric review and regular CTG monitoring, but sadly it didn’t. Throughout my pregnancy with him, Ollie always seemed sluggish, like he could never really be bothered to get moving and kicking – looking back at this, this was Ollie conserving his energy and trying to communicate to me that something was wrong. I voiced my concerns numerous times to Midwives and my friends and family; I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. But checks always came back clear, his CTG’s were always normal and there was no clinical rationale to induce, except my gut instinct. Which should have been listened to, as mothers we should always be listened to and trusted when we say something is wrong.

My son Ollie James Watson died on the 15th October 2021 at approximately 1pm in the afternoon, I was 40 weeks and 4 days pregnant.

He was born sleeping at 06.42am on the 16th October 2021.

I had a 16-hour labour which ended in a post-partum haemorrhage. Luckily this was managed well and I lived. Ollie’s cause of death was a spontaneous placenta abruption and haemorrhage. Ollie would have survived if he had been delivered earlier.

I want to tell you more about the impact that my sons death has had on our lives.

what Ollie has achieved because of his brief existence is nothing short of remarkable.

I don’t want my son to be associated with disadvantage, pity or negativity. His legacy should be remembered with love, empathy and wonder; because what Ollie has achieved because of his brief existence is nothing short of remarkable.

I don’t believe that my son ever truly left. His cells live on inside of me forever, I believe that it is just his body that has left this earth and that his soul stayed. I feel Ollie’s presence so strongly that I simply cannot believe that this is the end of his story, he’s in the next room waiting for me. And in the meantime, he shows his presence in little ways that only a bereaved parent could even begin to feel or understand.

I was lucky to spend those 9 months with him, how lucky we were to get to know him even though our time was cut short. I know everything about him. I know he enjoyed music, I know that he enjoyed pineapple juice and strawberries, I know that he didn’t like people poking my tummy or his head. I know he was a night owl and spent most of the evenings rolling around, I know that his hair was the exact same colour as his Dad’s, I know his feet were abnormally large for a baby and where the creases are in his hands. What I don’t know is the colour of his eyes, what his favourite chocolate bar would have been, whether he would have enjoyed his milk. I can only imagine that…

I almost lost my life along with him, and for a long time afterwards I wished I had. I simply couldn’t comprehend why I was spared, and he wasn’t, it doesn’t fit with the natural order of life. Parents should not outlive their children. But then one day, when I saw a beautiful sunset and that little white feather trickled down from the sky, I was glad I stayed. I remain so grateful that I have been given the opportunity to live, and I don’t want to waste it.

The psychological impact that Ollie’s death has had on me is complex and given the word limit, I don’t have time to explain it. But what I will say is that my brain after Ollie died terrified me. It scared the life out of me, the power of thoughts and intrusion that trauma has on you. Every bereaved parent that I have ever spoken to following the death of their child has suffered or continue to suffer from some form of mental health issue.

I want you to know that purpose can still be found after stillbirth and life can still be meaningful and happy. Eventually.

The loss of a child is a lifelong sentence. There is never any ‘at least’; this is a lifelong journey that none of us asked for. The fact that society expect us to move on so quickly after such a profound loss is something that I will never understand.

Lastly, what I want you to know is that Ollie’s death doesn’t define me, I want you to know that purpose can still be found after stillbirth and life can still be meaningful and happy. Eventually. There was nothing positive about his death, I will never find a single element of positivity about our experience or what happened to him. But what is in my power is my ability to drive change as I move forward with Ollie alongside me, that is what I can control. That is my primary focus in his memory, that he did not die in vain. He died with purpose. Because what else do we have left to give him?

Written by Hayley Storrs