‘It Felt As If Our Son Was Struck By Lightning’
Content creator Sarah Herron was a contestant on the 17th season of The Bachelor with Sean Lowe, and the first and third seasons of Bachelor in Paradise. Herron was born with only the upper part of her left arm because of a condition known as amniotic band syndrome. Herron has long been an advocate for mental health, documenting on social media the ups and downs of her journey trying to conceive. She and her fiancé, Dylan Brown, recently lost their baby, Oliver, at 24 weeks, and Herron has since become a prominent voice of pregnancy loss.
I was halfway through my pregnancy in January when our world got turned upside down. Oliver, our IVF miracle baby, had defied so many odds and fought through so many hard milestones to be here, but the higher powers still had other plans for Oliver, Dylan, and me.
At 22 weeks, we discovered that Oliver had an unexpected health complication that was incompatible with life outside the womb. At 24 weeks, after 20 hours of labor in the hospital, I birthed our baby boy and watched him nestle into my chest.
He came out beautiful—far too beautiful. He had my nose and his father’s long limbs. Shortly after being held skin to skin by both of us, Oliver quietly passed. He came into this life feeling love, protection, and warmth and left it knowing only the best of life’s offerings.
Up until this point, my pregnancy had been normal and blissfully uneventful. Although Dylan and I battled a long, two-year journey with IVF, my pregnancy with Oliver was nothing short of magic right from the start. I dedicated my life to nourishing him and assuring him that he was loved more than anything in our world.
By the end of my first trimester, I’d read every book and become the unofficial “pregnancy guru” in my community. I wanted to master pregnancy—even the messiness of it—because there was nothing I wanted more than to be Oliver’s mother.
I was diagnosed with diminished ovarian reserve when we decided to start our family in 2020.
This made Dylan and I one in eight couples who experience infertility. I also have stage 1 endometriosis and antiphospholipid syndrome, a blood clotting disorder that causes recurring miscarriages. We turned to Dr. Aimee Eyevazzadeh for IVF. After three egg retrievals, our first embryo transfer resulted in a chemical pregnancy, or a very early miscarriage within the first five weeks.
We kept trying. Since Dylan and I are both carriers for cystic fibrosis, we elected to perform genetic testing on all of our embryos, ensuring that any possible genetic or chromosomal abnormalities would not severely impact our future child. Oliver’s embryo came back with what’s known as a “Day 5 AA” grading—in other words, he was a high-quality embryo.
When we were ready to transfer the embryo to my uterus, we were certain that we had circumnavigated any congenital risks he could face. I did everything to ensure optimal chances for a successful implantation. I had a laparoscopic excision to remove endometriosis, received intrauterine platelet-rich plasma treatments, and took daily blood thinner injections to combat the blood clotting disorder.
In September 2022, our prayers were answered when our second transfer was successful, and I became pregnant with Oliver.
As I progressed through my pregnancy, we passed all the usual tests with flying colors; DNA carrier screenings, the nuchal translucency test, and bi-weekly ultrasounds—we cleared all of them with unwavering confidence. But against all odds, despite the genetic testing, the surgeries, and mounds of medications to ensure a successful pregnancy, at 22 weeks, we discovered Oliver’s condition. Something that couldn’t be screened for, that we couldn’t have seen coming. After all we’d been through, it felt as if our son was struck by lightning.
A few weeks later, on a snowy winter day, Oliver was born into a room of six women and his father. The nurses gently passed him around, gushing over his angelic features, treating him like a visitor from heaven. He was.
It reminded me of a scene from season 4 of Yellowstone, after the death of John Dutton’s grandson, where he says to the boy’s mother, “That boy lived a perfect life, Monica. We’re the only ones who know it was brief. All he knew was you and that you loved him.”
Oliver’s time here was brief, but we’re the only ones who know that. He only knew his mother’s love.
Suddenly, I was taking a crash course in postpartum relief through streaming tears.
During the night we spent in the hospital, I was educated on how to change my own diaper and watch for signs of infection. It was all an excruciating indication that when I returned home, all the usual postpartum symptoms of having a baby were coming with me—but my son was not.
No one had told me that my milk would come in, or that I would need my bathroom stocked with adult diapers in my second trimester. I hadn’t unboxed my breast pump yet or learned how to hand-express my breasts. My days should have been spent sampling belly oils and rubbing my bump. But instead, I had to care for my healing body.
Postpartum after pregnancy loss is still postpartum. Biology doesn’t care if you’ve read the chapters on perineal care or lactation support when you lose your baby. You jump from the second trimester to the fourth trimester overnight.
Since coming home without Oliver, everything has been a haunting reminder of what was supposed to be.
There is no way to prepare yourself for the subtle inconveniences of pregnancy vanishing—without warning. Like the way you can suddenly zip your winter coat or reach down to tie your shoes again. Or how the elastic band on your sweats suddenly fits on your waist—not below it. Or the way you accidentally roll onto your belly in the middle of the night. And worst of all, catching your new reflection each day and no longer seeing a bump.
I’m not sure how to summarize how we’ve managed to survive since saying goodbye to our son. It has required a certain type of wintering, of retreat and rest that only a grieving mother knows. There are no words for the magnitude of loss and pain you experience when losing a child. It was messy and ripped us apart, yet it was an important part of our experience as parents.
We had to face Oliver’s death head-on and let the grief tear through us. And somewhere, in the chaos of loss, we found our survival instinct and could sustain our love for Oliver while moving forward with our life. It has been beautiful and simultaneously tragic. We’ve been surrounded by love and have never been lonelier.
Sometimes I can’t tell if the last month has been a nightmare and if my pregnancy was all a dream.
And as each new day brings increments of space and healing...I am gutted that we are moving back in the direction of a life that physically looks like the one we lived before Oliver. After six weeks of bleeding, my period returned to normal. All signs indicate that my body is healing, yet I remain in maternity jeans—a paradox of relief and grief at the same time.
The things that were “off limits” during pregnancy are suddenly allowed again, and it feels jarringly wrong. Even considering a turkey sandwich or a glass of wine (things I longed for during pregnancy) feels like a deep betrayal and abandonment of my baby.
Although it’s still snowing, spring is peeking its way through, and I am not ready. The daylight gained each night is an insulting gesture that life carries on despite my grief still being held in January. I don’t want the snow to melt or the trees to bud. I want to winter with Oliver forever.
Still, joy has come back sooner than I expected.
I didn’t believe people when they told me it would. And we’ve learned to laugh again—a lot. We’ve started cooking and going for walks. And Rio, our sweet dog, is our witness.
Our time together was short, but we are grateful for our days with Oliver in my belly. He has taught us so much about the integrity of life, love, and death. He’s taught me what it means to be a mother: to honor, celebrate and show up for your children—regardless of their time on earth. Oliver filled our home and hearts with so much love and optimism.
The stars aligned to create our son with a deep, meaningful purpose bigger than we’ll ever understand. His body was small, but his legacy will always be larger than life to us. While our hearts are shattered beyond comprehension, and we would much rather have our son here with us, we are comforted knowing that our son’s soul only ever knew love and will not suffer in a body that wasn’t built for this life.
He wasn’t struck by lightning...he was magic.
This article is part of Women’s Health’s coverage of National Infertility Awareness Week (April 23–29, 2023).
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