Two Years Without Otis: The Day We Became Bereaved Parents 🤍

Two years ago, our lives changed forever.

On 22 September 2024, at 36 weeks pregnant, I noticed that our baby boy, Otis, was moving differently. Something didn't feel right, so we went straight to the hospital, hoping and praying that everything would be okay. Instead, we heard the words that no parent should ever have to hear:

“There is no heartbeat.”

Nothing can prepare you for hearing those words. I remember the disbelief, the panic, the wailing and the overwhelming feeling that I was somehow watching it all happen from outside of my own body. Just moments before, we had been expecting to meet our baby in a few weeks, imagining what he would look like, what his personality would be like and what our lives would be like as his parents. Suddenly, we were being told that our beautiful baby boy had died, and everything we had imagined for our future had changed in an instant.

We were asked questions we never imagined we would have to answer and had decisions to make when we could barely comprehend what was happening. There were blood tests, conversations and information to take in, all while we were trying to understand that our baby was no longer alive. It was overwhelming and surreal, but somehow we had to keep moving forward because there was something else we now had to face: I still needed to give birth to our son.

“I don't think I can do this.”

After being told that Otis had died and beginning to discuss what would happen next, the panic really began to set in. I knew I would have to go through labour and give birth to the baby I had spent 36 weeks growing and loving, knowing that I wouldn't be taking him home.

I had spent my pregnancy imagining birth in such a different way. I had thought about meeting our baby, hearing his first cry, holding him against my chest and finally seeing the little boy we had been waiting so long to meet. Now I had to go through that same experience, but without the ending we had always imagined.

I remember thinking, I don't think I can do this.

Looking back, I still don't really know how I did it. I think sometimes, when something is completely beyond what you believe you can cope with, you simply take things one moment at a time because there is no other choice.

The bereavement suite

We were checked into the bereavement suite at the hospital, somewhere that no parent ever wants to know exists, but somewhere we were incredibly grateful was there when we needed it.

The suite gave us a private space away from the busyness of the maternity ward and had a real double bed, a small kitchenette and a little patio area outside. Most importantly, our family and friends were able to come and go whenever they wanted, with no limits on how many people could be there. We didn't have to sit through those long hours alone, and that meant more to us than I can put into words.

They came, they sat with us and they waited with us while we waited for the induction to work. We were surrounded by people who loved us and loved Otis, and having them there helped us through something I don't think we could ever have faced alone. Eventually, I went into labour and we moved into the delivery room next door, where we met Katie and Lauren, the midwives who would help us meet our baby boy.

The midwives who helped us meet Otis

Katie was wonderful. She was so warm and friendly, and she helped make an experience that felt completely impossible a little less frightening. When her shift came to an end, we met Lauren, who was calm, loving and gentle, and somehow seemed like the perfect person to help us through the next part of our journey.

There are people who come into your life during the most difficult moments and leave a mark on you forever, and Katie and Lauren are two of those people for us. They understood that this wasn't simply a birth; this was our son's birth, and they treated Otis with kindness, dignity and respect while treating us as his mum and dad.

I will write another blog about Otis' birth because there are so many details that I want to remember and share, but there is one thing I want to say about it now. For something that was so incredibly tragic, it was the most beautiful birth.

That might sound strange when talking about the birth of a baby who was born sleeping, because there was obviously unimaginable heartbreak alongside everything we experienced. But the two things can exist together. I was completely heartbroken, and at the same time, I have some of the most beautiful memories of Otis' birth.

We finally got to meet our baby boy. We got to hold him, look at his little face, take in every tiny detail and spend time with him. There was so much love in that room, and although his birth was nothing like the birth we had imagined, I will always be grateful for the way we were cared for and for the memories we were able to make.

Having time with our baby

One of the things we will always be grateful for was the cooling cot that was available at the hospital, which meant we could spend many days with Otis rather than having to say goodbye straight away. We could hold him, talk to him, look at him and simply be his mum and dad for a little longer.

Those days are some of the most precious memories we have.

The midwives also helped us create memories with the memory boxes provided by 4Louis. They helped us make hand and footprints, took photographs of us together and gave us opportunities to create tangible memories of our little boy that we could take home with us.

At the time, it was difficult to understand just how important those things would become. Now, two years later, they are priceless.

When your baby dies, you don't get the years of photographs, videos and everyday memories that other parents naturally collect as their children grow. Instead, those precious memories have to be created in a very different way, which is why every photograph, every footprint and every tiny detail of Otis feels so incredibly important to us.

Learning how to live with grief

When we eventually left the hospital, we had to begin learning how to live in a world without Otis, and I don't think anything could have prepared me for the moment we had to walk out through the maternity ward without our baby. After carrying him for eight months, feeling him move inside me and spending months imagining the day we would bring him home, we had to leave him there and walk away without him. Walking through those maternity corridors, past rooms where other parents were preparing to take their babies home, is one of the most traumatic memories of our entire experience.

Then came the moment we arrived home and had to walk through our own front door without the baby we had spent so long preparing for. There were no newborn cuddles waiting for us, no baby to put down to sleep and no sleepless nights for the reasons we had expected. Instead, there was an unbearable emptiness, and the reality of what had happened began to sink in. We had left the hospital without our son, and somehow we were expected to return home and learn how to live without him.

Grief affected everything. There were panic attacks, intrusive and negative thoughts, and a real fear of the nights drawing in. As the evenings became darker, I would feel the anxiety building, and there were times when simply getting through the next hour felt like enough.

We were fortunate to have grief counselling through Petals, and having somewhere safe to put all of those thoughts and feelings was incredibly important to me. It gave us somewhere we could talk openly about the panic attacks, the intrusive thoughts, the fear, the anger and the sadness without worrying about making anyone else uncomfortable or feeling that we needed to protect the people around us.

Having someone who understood grief and could help us work through what we were experiencing was amazing. It didn't make the grief disappear, because nothing could do that, but it gave us somewhere to take it and someone who could help us understand what we were feeling.

I think that is something I have learned over the past two years: grief doesn't need to be fixed. Sometimes you simply need somewhere safe to put it.

We needed something practical to focus on

As we tried to navigate our new life, we also found ourselves needing to do something practical. There was such a huge sense of helplessness because we couldn't change what had happened to Otis, we couldn't bring him home and we couldn't make everything okay. But we could do something that might help another family.

After Otis died, we struggled to find a simple, beautiful resting place for his ashes. We wanted something that felt personal and worthy of our baby boy, rather than something that felt clinical or impersonal, and that experience stayed with us.

Eventually, it became the reason we created Pure Keepsakes.

Through our grief, we needed something that gave us purpose and something to focus on. Creating baby urns was never something we imagined we would be doing, but it became a way of taking something incredibly painful and using it to help other families. Having something practical to work on gave us a reason to get up and focus our energy somewhere, while also allowing us to feel that perhaps something positive could come from the worst experience of our lives.

We know that every urn we make represents a baby who should be here and a family who should be bringing their baby home. We know that behind every name we engrave is a story, a family and a baby who was deeply loved, and we never take that responsibility lightly.

At the same time, we know from our own experience how important it can be to have something beautiful and personal for your baby's ashes. If we can make that process even slightly easier for another family, then that gives what we do meaning.

Two years without Otis

Two years later, I still think about the little boy we were so excited to meet. I think about his dark hair, his little pouty lips, his chunky cheeks, button nose and long fingers, and I think about the kicks I felt during pregnancy and all the dreams we had for the life we would have together.

I think about everything we should have experienced together: his first smile, his milestones, watching him grow and discovering who he would have become. There are so many ordinary moments that we never got to have, and sometimes it is those ordinary things that hurt the most.

It is strange how two years can feel like such a long time and no time at all. There are days when the grief feels quieter and days when it feels just as raw as it did at the beginning, and sometimes something completely unexpected can bring it rushing back. A song, a photograph, a date, a memory or simply the realisation that another year has passed without him can be enough.

I've learned that grief doesn't move in a straight line. You don't simply leave it behind; you learn to carry it, and some days the weight is lighter than others.

Still his mum

Two years without Otis, but not two years without being his mum.

Because becoming Otis' mum didn't end when he died. I am still his mum, and he is still our son. He is still loved, he is still remembered and he always will be.

We talk about him, we say his name and we remember the little details that made him who he was. Through Pure Keepsakes, his little life has also become part of something that allows us to support other bereaved families, and that is something I never could have imagined when we first heard those devastating words.

I wish I could say that two years has made losing him easier, but I don't think grief works like that. Instead, we've learned how to live alongside it. We've learned that it is okay to have good days, to laugh and to feel happy, just as it is okay to have days when getting through the next hour feels like enough.

Our babies remain part of us, no matter how much time passes.

So, two years after the day we heard the words that changed our lives forever, we remember our beautiful boy. We remember the baby we loved, the son we were so excited to meet and the little boy who will forever be part of our family.

Forever our baby boy. 🕊️

And forever our son. 🤍