My name is Hayley Storrs. At 33, I make my home in Leeds with my partner, Reece.
On October 16, 2021, at 6:42 a.m., our beautiful son, Ollie James Watson, was born at Calderdale Royal Hospital after a long 14-hour labor. But instead of hearing his cry, we were met with silence. At 40 weeks and 5 days, Ollie was stillborn due to a sudden and severe placental abruption that occurred at home only hours after a routine procedure. From that moment, the life I once knew was gone, and I was forced into a new and unfamiliar one.
Before losing Ollie, if someone asked me to tell my story, I’d talk about my job in the NHS, my journalism degree, my love of books and holidays, my roles as daughter, friend, and partner. Motherhood changed everything for me, and now the only story I truly long to share is Ollie’s.
I found out I was pregnant on January 31, 2021. It was the first month we tried, and I was shocked to see a positive test. Having been on the contraceptive pill for years, I expected it to take longer. But there he was. We were thrilled. Anxious, yet overflowing with joy and hope.
At 16 weeks we found out Ollie was a boy, and we celebrated with our families. We moved into a bigger house, closer to Reece’s family, ready to raise him there. My pregnancy seemed smooth, though I often worried about his movements. From about 26 weeks, I noticed changes—he sometimes felt sluggish. I went for checks, but each time I was reassured he was fine. Even at 37 weeks, when I asked for another scan, everything appeared normal. His due date came and went, and I tried every old wives’ tale to get him moving, but nothing worked.
On October 15, my midwife came to our home to do a stretch and sweep. Everything seemed okay at the time. A couple of hours later, as I was getting ready to go out, I felt a sudden pop. I thought my waters had broken, but instead, there was blood. Thick, red, and unstoppable. I rushed to call the hospital, then a friend drove me there as Reece was away at a funeral.
At the hospital, I waited far too long. I told the midwives that something wasn’t right, but they dismissed my concerns.
By the time Reece arrived, I already knew in my heart Ollie had gone. When they finally checked, no heartbeat could be found. A doctor confirmed what I already feared: our baby had died. I felt numb, like I was outside of my body, watching it happen to someone else.
The next day, after a long labor and with the help of forceps, I gave birth to Ollie. He weighed 7 pounds 10 ounces, with soft light-brown hair. He was perfect. I took comfort in knowing he passed instantly, with me, listening to my heartbeat. Still, walking out of the hospital without him was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
The days after were dark. I battled with overwhelming grief and even thoughts of not wanting to live. Friends and family stayed with me, making tea while I sat in silence. I couldn’t stand the darkness, wept constantly, and was overwhelmed by panic attacks.
Eventually, we learned through a postmortem that Ollie had died from the placental abruption and that nothing could have saved him.
Slowly, I began finding ways to cope. I started therapy, joined a support group, and raised money for SANDS by taking part in a charity walk. To keep Ollie’s memory alive, I created “OJ the Octopus,” handmade felt octopuses sent to bereaved parents for comfort. To date, more than 120 have been sent around the world. I also began writing a blog, connected with other loss mums, and even started writing a book about Ollie. My promise to him is simple: his life will always matter, and he will never be forgotten.
In May 2022, we found out we were expecting again, a baby girl. Pregnancy after loss has been the hardest thing I’ve ever faced. Every day is a battle with fear, guilt, and hope. But I’m trying, for her and for Ollie, to take each day as it comes.
If there’s one message I want Ollie’s story to give, it’s this: even in the darkest days, there is hope. You may feel like you can’t survive the pain, but you can. The sun will rise again. You are not alone.
