By Rachel Libby
When our first son Oliver was stillborn on his due date almost six years ago, my tech savvy and quick thinking sister immediately made it so no one could post on my Facebook wall. I wasn’t particularly interested in checking in on it at the time but she wisely knew that even one well intentioned “is the baby here yet?” post on my wall would be much too much for me to handle.
During my twenty four hours of labor we had just enough time to make those worst phone calls, spreading the word of our loss to our family and close friends. But when it came time to officially announce Oliver’s death and spread the word about his upcoming memorial it was to Facebook we went. I can still remember getting home from the hospital, sitting in our living room typing up the post and trying to find the right words for an announcement I had never imagined having to share on a frivolous social media platform. (I landed on something like “devastated but grateful for the support thus far” which looking back seems wildly glass half full for how I actually felt.)
The response we got was overwhelming, an abundance of support and love virtually in comments and messages, but also concretely as acquaintances, friends and family heeded our Facebook post and came from near and far to celebrate and honor our son at his service.
Of all the messages I received throughout this journey, many were ones of solidarity from women I knew (or knew of) who had been through a similar experience. Most of whom kept this experience almost entirely to themselves or closest family. It shocked me, repeatedly, to learn that none of these women felt comfortable sharing their stories or talking openly about the babies they love and desperately miss.
But I have come of age in this digital world of constant oversharing, where no detail of your day is too mundane to share with your followers, and I knew right away that I could utilize this online space as an outlet for my grief. I periodically posted “notes” whenever the mood struck me, when I was sad or mad or grateful or when just enough people had said the same annoying thing and I needed to release a public service announcement of sorts. I wrote when we became pregnant with our subsequent son. I wrote on anniversaries of our loss. I wrote about how owls symbolize our love for Oliver and soon enough owl pictures and mementos flooded my inbox (and actual mailbox, too). I wrote lists of things I got to do with Oliver growing inside me. And I wrote lists of all the terrible things my boy would never have to go through, as if that would make me feel better about his loss (spoiler alert: it didn’t).
I wrote and shared, shared and wrote. Likely overshared and overwrote. And though I know it’s not the best path for everyone, it worked for me. Because the underlying message of all my writing was this: carrying on the memory of a loved one is too much for one person to do on their own and I needed help. And I got it. I received unending support from friends and opened up the possibility for my family to share their grief too.
Sharing my grief publicly worked for me then, and it still works now.. When I’m having a particularly Oliver day even now nearly six years later, I’ll write a post. I write to let my world know that I haven’t forgotten, I haven’t “moved on” (whatever that means) and most importantly I write to invite them to remember and celebrate him with me.
