Beau Oliver // Our Stillbirth Story
Today is your due date.
Today is your freaking due date.
January 23, 2020 - what was supposed to be one of the happiest days of our lives.
…but here we are.
I’ve been thinking about writing this for a few weeks now, but honestly, it feels like a waste. How am I supposed to articulate the loss of a child? How do I explain that every day is a freaking battle just to get out of bed - even on the “good days” where I can laugh, be with friends, or focus on other things. In any other situation you would want to push the pain out of your mind. Don’t focus on it, focus on something else - “the positive”. Yet the most painful thing to ever happen to me is also the best. Why would I ever want to push the thought of my son - the one who made me a mom - out of my mind? So I just cry. I don’t want to think about the pain that is my reality, but I can’t stand the thought of avoiding my baby.
So I cry. And scream. And cuss. And go numb. And question. And grieve.
I figured I would get through all the emotional, ugly bits first. Pour out all the random thoughts that don’t have any rhyme or reason. Partly so people can see into our new reality, and partly because I need somewhere to empty my mind so I don’t go crazy. So if you’re just here for the story on how/what/when - feel free to scroll past the line divider below. If you want the full mess of it all, here it is:
-At the moment, I just want to fill this page with profanity in bold letters. Because I’m angry. This isn’t fair. It’s complete bullcrap. I did everything I was supposed to. We were both perfectly healthy, so why the hell did this happen?
-For about the first three weeks after saying goodbye, my first thought every morning was “I’d rather be dead”. I never had any thoughts or intentions of hurting myself. But I didn’t want to be here. The pain was too much, and there was nothing I could do to change it. I read articles and books on other moms who had experienced stillbirth - specifically Christian moms - and while they were good, I would rarely find ones that were blunt about how bad it really is. Listen, I get it. We still hold true to our beliefs, and we don’t want the pain to overshadow the fact that we still have hope, peace, etc. But y’all. Sometimes people in deep pain just need someone to look at them and acknowledge that it freaking sucks. And the only reason I’m using the word “freaking” instead of the true F-bomb is because it wouldn’t be worth the backlash. So if there’s any other bereaved mothers who stumble onto this post, let me be the one to say it. You aren’t going crazy, your pain is valid, and this just the absolute ****ing worst.
-Three months later and I’m just now starting to sleep a little more normally. Just this week I have been able to listen to music out of pure enjoyment, and not to merely fill the silence. Food is starting to “sound good” again. I would always eat, but for months on end, nothing ever sounded appetizing.
-It feels nice when people refer to me as “mom” or “momma”. Because I am a mom. I have an empty nursery, empty womb, and empty arms. But I’m a mom. Even if most people can’t see it. I want to scream it from the rooftops. I’m a mom! I have a son! Please, don’t forget!
-How is it that there are people out there who have never experienced the loss of a child? My first is gone. I will never know that “full” feeling of having all of my children here with me. How is this such a painful, real experience for me - and yet most people will never have to know it? It feels like it doesn’t make sense for these two truths to coexist. It seems impossible.
-At times I can laugh about what we think Beau would have been like. Stubborn, funny, and wild.
-Sometimes it’s like I’m an outsider looking in. “Oh, what an awful situation. How truly heartbreaking.”, almost like my mind needs a break from the pain and won’t allow me to fully experience it in the moment.
-I just miss him, more than anything.
-For the love of God, say his name. Ask me about him. We loved the name Beau Oliver from the very beginning, we want to use it as much as possible.
-His nursery is across the hall from our room. We see it everyday. We never got to buy a crib, or changing table. Never got to paint his room and fill it with cute decorations. I was two weeks away from my first baby shower when we lost him. We didn’t want to start on the nursery until after my shower. So I never got to shop for my son. Now the room is basically just storage. The glider, baby blankets, and his clothes are all there in a pile. Just sitting.
-Dads deserve just as much attention as moms in these situations. They never got to carry their babies, or be with them 24/7. They have been just as robbed as anyone.
-He had my feet. I’ll never know the color of his eyes, the sound of his voice, or what his favorite cartoon would have been. But he had my feet. My oddly long toes. I had 3 dreams during my first trimester, and all three of them were about little boys. In one of them, the little boy had big eyes like Steven, but they were green like my mom’s. I always assumed those dreams were of Beau, but now I wonder if they could be of future boys too. Either way, I like to think of him with green eyes, and Steven’s smile. The only thing I know for sure, is that he had my feet. He had my feet..and that alone brings me so much joy.
When I found out I was pregnant, I sobbed, and they weren’t happy tears. I’m not kidding, I cried so hard that it felt like Mike Tyson had punched me in the forehead when I woke up the next morning. I knew I was pregnant from the start, but I had been avoiding taking a test for over a week. Seeing the positive blue lines immediately sent me into a downward spiral. I was absolutely terrified. My life was about to change forever. I had never been a “kid person” and definitely wasn’t confident that I would be a good mom - or even enjoy being a mom. I mean, Beau was a planned baby and I was still freaking out. However, once I made it through the initial shock, things started to change…slowly but surely.
I had an incredibly easy pregnancy. I didn’t have any nausea issues, and only had a few minor migraines here and there. But I hated it. And I was very vocal about hating being pregnant. I always thought it was because I didn’t feel like myself, something always felt “off” and it drove me insane. Not to mention my ankles and face started swelling from day one. Now, looking back, I think a large part of it was something else. I was so scared. Mainly scared of becoming a mom, but deep down I think I was afraid of losing my baby. When I think back to the times when I felt the most excited about having Beau, it was on the days I had my OB appointments. Seeing him doing cartwheels on the ultrasound, hearing his heartbeat, and always leaving with new pictures of our little love. I breathed easier on those days, because I could see him, and it brought me so much peace. Seeing Beau made everything more real, which actually tamed my fear and brought on the stereotypical pregnancy excitement. Those were great days. And now the memories of the great days are almost harder to bear than the bad days.
We moved into our new house in Greenville, SC on October 11th. We bought a great home with a backyard that had a creek. We constantly talked about having Beau out there in the water - our little adventurer. In all honesty, we bought the house for him.
On October 17th we made an emergency doctors appointment because I hadn’t felt him move in a few days. I thought it was just from all the chaos that comes with moving into a new house and getting settled. Of course we were moving, I must have just been so overwhelmed that I hadn’t been paying attention. But I knew better, and I was starting to panic.
Once we got to the doctor, they escorted Steven and I into a small room where they brought out a doppler to listen for a heartbeat. They didn’t even explain that to us…it was just known. We all knew what we were looking for.
Nightmares are made of silence
“I’m sorry…there’s no heartbeat”
At that moment, our world stopped.
We wailed in that small room. So much so that a kind nurse came in to hold us, and offered to escort us out the back way so we wouldn’t have to walk through the main lobby and face all of the people who just heard us fall apart.
We called family and friends from the parking lot to break the news. The same parking lot we sat in 2 weeks earlier with full hearts and pictures of our little boy.
The next few days were filled with family, friends, worship, and heartfelt prayers. Steven and I are well aware that many of people think we’re crazy for believing what we do, but we wholeheartedly believe in miracles. Small miracles, big miracles, and everything in between. So there was no way in hell we weren’t going to believe for a miracle for our son. We believed and prayed until the very end.
And even without our resurrection miracle - we still believe. I will be open and honest about the pain of our loss for the rest of my life, but that does not diminish the fact that we still believe in the impossible. And we still believe that the Lord is good. Even when that’s not easy to say. We have professed his goodness and his healing power for the majority of our lives, so it would be embarrassingly hypocritical of us to suddenly change our minds, just because we didn’t get our way.
Beau Oliver Gilliam was born on October 23, 2019. He weighed 1lb 13oz and was 14.5 inches long.
He was born exactly 3 months before his due date.
Like the majority of stillbirths, there was no known reason for Beau’s death. My blood work was perfectly normal, before, during and after. Beau was right on track with his anatomy scans, heartbeat, etc. There was nothing wrong with my placenta. No accident with the umbilical cord. One day his heart was beating, and then it wasn’t. The good news is that that means there isn’t anything we need to worry about with future pregnancies (genetic disorders, etc), but there’s still that empty feeling that my baby died for no reason. And on this side of eternity, we’ll never know why.
Our nurses and doctor were incredible. So kind and understanding, we couldn’t have asked for a better team. Everything went smoothly, so we took that as a small victory in the midst of our circumstance. We were surrounded by family and friends throughout the entire process, and are still surrounded to this day. We can’t say how thankful we are for these amazing people we have in our life.
To Beau,
We didn’t have a memorial service for you, it just didn’t seem right. Instead we brought your ashes home and just tried to make it. One day at a time. Which continues on to this day.
However, we have decided to make memories with you the only way we know how. Originally the plan was to spread your ashes in one beautiful, amazing location. But the world is so big and beautiful. How could we pick just one spot for the boy that we dreamed about exploring with for the rest of our lives? So no, your ashes won’t rest in just one spot. Instead, we hope to leave a little piece of you in in as many amazing places as we can.
In America, Europe, Africa (mommy’s favorite) - and everywhere in between.
There’s no set plan. No scheduled dates. Just the big wide world, and us. We wanted you here in our arms for the adventure, but honestly, you’re living a better life now than we could have ever given you. So we’ll try to make you proud, in the big things and little things. We’ll keep putting one foot in front of the other.
And we’ll keep loving you. Everyday for the rest of our lives, we will love you fiercely. We will use your name in conversations, talk about the joy you brought, and cry from the pain. When you start getting siblings, we will talk openly about the love that their big brother brought us. Then when our lives are over, we will have our adventures face to face. And there aren’t words to describe the joy that thought brings me.
I love you, Beau. I miss you every second of everyday, and I would give anything if it meant having you here with us. I’m so incredibly honored to be your mom. Your dad and I couldn’t have asked for a better son. We can’t wait to see you again.
