Our story begins with so much beauty. Liam was born on July 29, 2020. That year had felt heavy, a string of challenges and disappointments, yet in the middle of it all, he arrived—a tiny beacon of hope. We chose a birthing center for his arrival, surrounded by certified midwives, supportive nurses, and a doula who guided me through my first natural birth. Liam was our fifth baby, but our third living child. I had dreamed of his birth being calm, powerful, and full of love—and it was exactly that.
Labor started around 7 p.m. on the 29th, and by 10:57 p.m., Liam was here. Our midwife, Heather, cared for us with such precision and warmth, ensuring we were both healthy enough to go home just a few hours later. That night, our home felt peaceful, and the next morning, Liam met his two older siblings, Chantry and Jack. Their tiny eyes lit up with love immediately, and our days that followed were filled with the quiet, joyful rhythm of adjusting to life as a family of five.
At Liam’s 48-hour checkup, he looked perfect—gaining weight, healthy, and vibrant. Yet a small, unsettling feeling lingered in my chest. Everything seemed too perfect, and I couldn’t shake the sense that something wasn’t quite right. I dismissed it, telling myself it was just the intuition of a mom who had experienced loss before, remembering our first child and a later miscarriage.
But intuition has a way of speaking louder than logic. When Liam was 11 days old, my husband, Thomas, noticed something unusual. He asked casually if it was normal for newborns to breathe so quickly. I stopped and watched—his chest was rising and falling fast, irregular. I brought Liam to our bedroom, counted his breaths, and realized he was doubling the normal rate of 40–60 per minute. Panic set in. I texted our midwife, Jolene, who immediately asked the right questions. I sent her a video, and without hesitation, she told us to go to the emergency room.
At the ER, I explained everything exactly as I had to Jolene. The nurses and doctors initially reassured us, observing Liam for a short while and taking vitals. After an hour, they said he appeared healthy and sent us home. I tried to trust them, but the gnawing feeling of dread remained.
Two days later, at 14 days old, Jolene saw Liam again. The moment she laid eyes on him, she knew something was wrong. Worried about a possible blood infection, she drew blood herself and carefully listened to his heart. She suggested getting him to his pediatrician immediately.
Liam’s breathing never slowed below 65 breaths per minute, even while sleeping. That day, he also struggled to eat, stopping frequently to catch his breath. I knew this was far from normal. I dropped Chantry and Jack off with a friend and took Liam to his appointment. The pediatrician conducted a standard two-week checkup but didn’t notice the severity of his rapid breathing. When I insisted, explaining that he sometimes topped 90 breaths per minute, the doctor’s demeanor changed instantly.
He sent us straight to the Children’s Hospital ER for x-rays and an ultrasound, suspecting a possible brain bleed or heart complication. When we arrived, the hospital’s computer systems were down, and I had to explain Liam’s condition all over again. Soon, Liam began experiencing apnea—pauses in breathing. This time, the urgency was undeniable. A chest x-ray and echocardiogram revealed the truth: Liam had a coarctation of the aorta, a pinched section of his heart’s main artery.
Because Liam’s PDA—a temporary valve present at birth—had closed, his heart couldn’t pump enough blood to his body. He was in serious danger and needed immediate intervention. Thomas raced to the hospital to be by our side as doctors stabilized Liam with medication that risked stopping his breathing. They intubated him and put him on a ventilator, a tiny life suspended by machines and hope.
Soon after, he was life-flighted to Children’s Hospital in Aurora, Colorado. I followed by car, nearly two hours behind the helicopter that carried him. My parents booked flights, my in-laws stayed to care for our other children, and the hospital staff guided me to the CICU, where a team of 15 doctors and nurses awaited.
Liam was critically unstable. Doctors explained that even an hour longer could have been fatal. He needed more medication and a central line, and I had to say goodbye again. Thomas arrived shortly after, and together we watched as our tiny baby fought for his life. That night, we barely slept, listening to him move and cry silently, muffled by the tube keeping him alive.
The next day, medication had stabilized him enough to prepare for surgery. Tests on his brain, liver, and kidneys showed improvement, and though his PDA had not reopened, his coarctation had relaxed slightly, allowing some blood flow. Finally, we met Dr. Mitchell, Liam’s surgeon, who explained the procedure, showed us 3D models, and mapped out exactly how he would repair Liam’s heart.
Surgery was scheduled for Sunday, August 16. That day, we held Liam just once before the operation, for an hour, his tiny body finally resting in my arms. The morning of surgery felt surreal. We went to IHOP, waiting anxiously for updates. Three hours later, we received the call—he was out of surgery. When we returned, we were prepared for the sight of his healing chest and drainage tube, but nothing could prepare us for the raw reality.
Recovery was swift. Within 24 hours, he was off the ventilator; 48 hours later, he moved to the step-down unit. Though he faced challenges with eating due to a weakened vocal cord, every day brought progress. Eight days after surgery, we brought him home—a family whole again, more grateful than ever.
Liam is now thriving. He sees a cardiologist every six months and, at six months old, continues to bring light, joy, and endless smiles into our lives. The fear of the unknown lingers, but so does the deep, unshakable gratitude for his presence, for his courage, and for the love that carried us through the most harrowing days of our lives.
We will never take for granted the gift of having our whole family together, and every smile from Liam reminds us that miracles do happen.
