The text message from Dave included 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 moment for the reality of those words to sink in.
My wife received the same text. Together, we slowly comprehended the tragedy that had befallen our friends and felt 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, going through the difficulty and stress of IVF. We shared their joy when they announced the pregnancy and celebrated with them.
We understood the depth of their loss, but how to support them was less clear.
After exchanging texts with Dave, it became clear he was struggling with intense grief alongside profound love for his child.
“I feel like I’ve seen colour for the first time, and it’s just been ripped away from us. I love him so much,” he wrote.
I thought back to the birth of my first child, a feeling like no other, and could only imagine their pain.
Sophie had given birth to Oliver naturally. His small body weighed 390 grams and was 27 centimeters long.
In the days that followed, Oliver remained 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, read him books, sang him songs, and slept next to him.
For four days, they settled into a routine of visiting Oliver, enjoying precious moments, knowing an inevitable goodbye was approaching.
Meeting Oliver Was a Privilege
Dave mentioned a funeral. They had booked a room at a crematorium for an hour to spend their last moments with Oliver. It seemed like a private event.
I asked if I could attend, wondering if it was appropriate. Did they want me there? Could I handle it?
I realized they too didn’t have the answers. They were following their instincts. There is no script, no traditional ceremony for stillbirth.
Dave said we were welcome. A few days later, we drove from Newcastle to Sydney to join a small group of friends and family.
When we arrived, there were hugs and tears. We expressed condolences, but words seemed less important. Being present was what mattered.
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 were closed, looking 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 favorite toys and books and shared keepsakes from their time in the hospital—a memory book of photos and imprints of his small footprints. Like any new parents, they were excited to share.
They encouraged us to spend time with Oliver, which I did. The moment was heavy, but not awkward or uncomfortable. It felt special. I held his hand. Meeting him was a privilege.
Dave later talked about how much it meant to them to create shared memories of Oliver’s existence, adding to “his story.”
After about 40 minutes, we left Oliver alone with his parents. They would have time to read him one more story.
A Day of Mixed Emotions
Afterwards, we drove to a beachside restaurant for lunch with views over the ocean on a postcard-perfect day. The tone shifted, and amid the grief, there were moments of happiness and reflection.
I learned more about their journey, the incredible support they received from the hospital, charities like Bears of Hope and Red Nose Australia, and the volunteer group Heartfelt Photography that took professional photos.
“It was incredible to know how many different people and organizations 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 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 how our society acknowledges and commemorates stillbirth. I thought about Oliver and reflected on the day that had unfolded.
It 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.
