Grief, love, pride and hope can live side by side, I learnt this the day Olive was born. Her life was short, but it changed mine in ways I’m still discovering. As a midwife, I’ve supported many families through loss, but I never imagined I’d one day be living it myself.
I am a mum of three girls, two who are here and one in the stars.
In my first pregnancy I was blessed to have a pretty normal pregnancy and I gave birth to Billie at term.
My second pregnancy was with Olive. She was born at 22+5 after three weeks of uncertainty: worries about my shortening cervix, the trauma and anxiety of deciding whether to have a stitch put in, putting the stitch in and then my waters breaking. In that moment, because I'm a midwife, I immediately knew what that meant. But it was like my brain wasn’t ready to process it, because in the moment, I didn’t get upset. I was in the hospital, my husband had gone home because things were stable, I went to the toilet before going to bed, I sneezed and I felt some fluid, it was like pink water. I buzzed the midwife, and spoke very matter-of-factly. A test was done, the doctor confirmed what I knew and we were faced with the heartbreaking decision to end our very wanted pregnancy to protect both of us from infection and the complications of such extreme prematurity. It wasn’t an emergency, there was nothing that could be done. There was a student doctor present observing and I remember she just stood there and stared at me. I turned on my side and just sobbed. There are no words for that grief.
When Olive was born, it was into a room filled with love and support. My husband Ben, friend Jane and midwives Amy and Megan held the space during a very traumatic day. She lived for less than an hour and spent that time on our chests, warm and cosy, while we listened to music and sang to her. Lying with Olive, everything felt simple. Everything was put into perspective. I remember thinking, here I am, lying here with my baby, and she's not alive, and this is all I need to be doing right now. It was a really peaceful, simple moment. I had no stress, because there was nothing that could be done, all the other priorities, or what would usually be priorities, were frivolous. I just soaked her in, and grieved, and just was. With her in her cold cot next to us, our families came to meet her and so did many of my colleagues. Then, 24 hours later, we went home.
In the midst of our grief, I found myself Googling some of the more messed up things I’ve ever had to: “How to tell a 2-year-old her baby sister died”, and “nice baby urn”. For the latter, I was disappointed. I couldn’t find anything that felt right for Olive, or that we even liked, so I decided to make one myself out of clay. My friend Phillip, who I used to do ceramics classes with, came over with a block of clay and we got to work. The first attempt was a total flop; I’d completely forgotten how to work with clay and I was deep in grief brain. Then, a couple of weeks later, on Mother’s Day of all days, I tried again. I sat on our porch and made Olive’s urn in the sun. It was strangely the most perfect way to spend Mother’s Day, it felt peaceful and it felt right.
I didn't know it at the time, but this was the start of Olive & Kin. When your baby dies, you become part of a club no one wants to be in, we inside it call it the worst club with the best people.
As I shared news of the birth and death of Olive, friends and acquaintances put me in touch with others they knew who had walked the path of pregnancy and infant and child loss.
I shared the making of Olive’s urn on Instagram and found many others who didn't have urns because they couldn't find one they liked, others whose babies had sat “in a box under the bed” for many years.
I've always been a creative person in the sense that I create in order to relax. Making Olive’s urn was healing, quiet and meditative. I started making urns for other families during my baby-less maternity leave. It was a kind of therapy, I knew how awful the grief was, and that there's nothing anyone can do or say to take it away, but there's things people can do to make it a bit less shit. Knowing that I could do that for other people was very healing for me as well. I could create something nice, and I could do something good for others like me.
I have now handmade more than 175 custom ceramic urns. They've gone all over Australia. Thanks to the generosity of kind donors, they are free and always will be. I get enquiries from around the world, from South Africa to Costa Rica to The Netherlands. It is heartbreaking but also really affirming that what I’m doing is needed and necessary.
Olive & Kin became a charity in May this year and has DGR status, which means all donations are tax deductible. It has opened up more opportunities for corporate partnerships but we are always looking for more funding.
I feel really lucky to have found such big meaning in my grief. When Olive died, I thought about the saying, “Everything happens for a reason”. No one said that to me, thank God, but I couldn’t go on feeling as though Olive died for no reason. I felt like I needed to make a reason. Olive & Kin, helping families through tremendous pain, the community we’ve built, is that reason.
The organisation also means I get to say her name and hear her name every day, and I feel lucky for that. If you’ve ever lost someone, you’ll know that hearing their name is powerful and beautiful. If I’m asked my name for a coffee order, I’ll sometimes say “Olive” and it makes me feel happy. Then, when the barista calls it out I get rechuffed. I guess it just makes her more real. Like she's not just someone in our past, but in the present too. It brings a glimmer to the mundane moments and is a small way to honour her existence.
We’ve been lucky enough to have had another baby, Norah. My pregnancy with her was very complicated and she was born early at 28 weeks. We both had sepsis when she was born and she went on to have recurrent meningitis and has spent a third of her life in hospital! Looking at her though, you wouldn't know, and she's a happy little girl. While I was hospitalised in Norah's pregnancy, I did lots of watercolour paintings to pass the time. It was another sort of era of art therapy for me. I turned my paintings into Pregnancy After Loss Affirmation cards and have now made NICU Milestone Cards and Grief Affirmation cards too. All the profits from these cards go straight back towards fulfilling our mission of making and sending urns out to families that need one.
The grief doesn’t go away but the waves of grief spread out a little with time. Olive will always be one of our daughters and we speak of her often. We celebrate her birthday each year and always will.
Looking ahead, I’m really excited to keep growing Olive & Kin. I hope to expand our offerings and continue developing the charity into something sustainable so that more families can feel seen and supported. Olive’s legacy is living on through this work and I feel so lucky to have found a way to honour her meaningfully.
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Things That Loss Parents Probably Want You to Know:
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Mentioning our baby’s name won’t upset us or suddenly ‘remind’ us that they’ve died. We think about them all the time anyway- it means the world to have our babies acknowledged and to hear their names.
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Silence hurts more than anything. If you don’t know what to say, it’s okay to literally say “I don't know what to say”!
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Platitudes are not helpful- ‘she’s in a better place’, ‘it wasn’t meant to be’.
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Anything starting with ‘at least’ is not helpful- ‘at least you can get pregnant’, ‘at least you weren't further along’. Let’s ban ‘at least’.
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Check ins, a grief menu- ie: please choose from the following options. I’ll bring you dinner/I’ll walk your dog/I’ll collect your food shopping/I’ll come over and we can watch dumb telly together but don’t talk/I’ll come over and you talk to me and I’ll just listen.
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Send messages checking in but don’t expect a reply (and saying so) is so appreciated.
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If you see us smiling or laughing it doesn’t mean we are ‘over it’. The grief comes in waves. Moments of joy don’t mean the grief is over. Both can exist together.
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Asking questions like “How are you today?” or “How is your heart today?” rather than a general “How are you?”. “How are you?” is a very big question when you’re grieving, a more specific question can feel easier to answer.
If you or someone you love has experienced the loss of a baby, these resources may help:
Bears of Hope
bearsofhope.org.au
Stillbirth Foundation Australia
stillbirthfoundation.org.au
Red Nose (formerly Sands)
rednosegriefandloss.org.au
The Perinatal Loss Centre
theperinatallosscentre.com.au
The Compassionate Friends
compassionatefriends.org
The Gidget Foundation
gidgetfoundation.org.au
PANDA
panda.org.au
For When
forwhenhelpline.org.au
