Meeting my friend’s stillborn son was a privilege I won’t forget

Readers are advised this story discusses stillbirth and contains photos and other content that may be distressing to some people.

The text message from Dave was accompanied by a series of photos of him and his partner Sophie holding a small baby. 

“After 20 weeks of pregnancy and complications, Sophie delivered Oliver Joseph Donald O’Neill. Our beautiful little boy, perfect but still.”

It took a few moments for the meaning of those words to sink-in.

My wife got the same text. Together our brains slowly computed the reality. The tragedy for our friends. Our deep sadness at their loss.

‘I’ve seen colour for the first time and it’s been ripped away from us’

We knew Sophie and Dave had been trying for a baby for some time. That they had gone through the difficulty and stress of IVF to conceive. The pure joy when they shared the news and we celebrated together.

We knew how much this loss meant. But how to support them was less clear.

After a series of texts with Dave, it became clear he was struggling with competing feelings of intense grief alongside profound love for his child.

I thought back to the birth of my first child, a feeling like no other, and could only imagine.

Sophie had given birth to Oliver naturally. His small body weighed 390 grams and was 27 centimetres long.

In the days that followed, Oliver was kept at the hospital where Sophie and Dave visited him in a special room set up for parents to spend time with their stillborn children.

They cuddled him. They read him books. They sang him songs. They slept next to him.

For four days they settled into the routine of visiting Oliver, enjoying precious moments, knowing there was an inevitable and impending goodbye.

Meeting Oliver was a privilege

Dave mentioned a funeral. They had booked a room at a crematorium for an hour in which they could spend their last moments with Oliver. It sounded like a private thing.

I asked if I could go, but questioned whether it was appropriate. Did they want me there? Could I handle it?

I realised that they too didn’t know the answers. They were following their instincts. There is no script, no road map of tradition and ceremony for stillbirth.

Dave said we were welcome and a few days later we drove down from Newcastle to Sydney to join a small group of friends and family.

When we arrived, there were hugs and tears. We expressed the typical condolences, but in a sense the words were not important. It felt like being there, present in the moment, is what counted.

In an open casket at the head of the room, Oliver was wrapped in blankets, wearing a small, knitted beanie, and surrounded by soft toys. His eyes closed, he looked peaceful. His features were small, but well-defined. His skin had the lacy pattern of reddish and pale areas like any newborn.

Dave and Sophie referred to his favourite toys, his favourite books, and shared keepsakes from their time in hospital — a memory book of photos and imprints of his small footprints. Like any new parent, they were excited to share.

They encouraged us all to spend time with Oliver, which I did. The moment was heavy, but it wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable. It felt special. I held his hand. It was a privilege to see him, to meet him.

After about 40 minutes, we left Oliver alone with his parents. They would have time to read him one more story.

Afterwards, we all drove to a beachside restaurant for lunch with views over the ocean on a postcard-perfect day. The tone of the day shifted and amid the grief there were moments of happiness and reflection.

I learnt more about the journey they had been on, the incredible support they received at the hospital, from the hospital support workers, the charities Bears of Hope and Red Nose Australia, the volunteer group Heartfelt Photography that came and took professional photos.

“It was just so incredible to know how many different people and organisations are out there trying to help,” Sophie said.

In the months since, they have joined support networks, participated in charity walks and become friends with other parents who’ve experienced similar loss. Sophie has started volunteering with one of the charities that helped her.

As we left the lunch late in the afternoon, we all hugged one more time. Dave had created a playlist for Oliver and shared it with us for the drive home. Bob Dylan’s Forever Young was his song, they told me. A perfect choice.

As we listened in the car, I thought about the evolution of how our society acknowledges and commemorates stillbirth. I thought about Oliver and I reflected on the day that had unfolded.

It had felt natural to be there in support. To see Oliver and say his name.

We created shared memories. I met a beautiful little boy. I saw two incredible parents.

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