She came into this world far earlier than she should have.
And four months later, she is still fighting—every breath, every heartbeat, every fragile moment at a time.
Chelsea Unica was born at just 25 weeks of gestation, weighing only 365 grams—so small she could fit into the palm of a hand. There was no loud cry to announce her arrival. No immediate skin-to-skin warmth on her mother’s chest. Instead, there was silence, broken only by the urgent movements of doctors and the steady beeping of machines. Her first breath did not come from her own lungs—it came from technology. Tubes, wires, and monitors surrounded her tiny body, each one a reminder of how delicate her grip on life truly was.
From her very first moment, breathing was not instinct—it was a battle.
Four months have now passed inside the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Four months of fear that never fully loosens its grip. Four months of waiting, hoping, praying, and learning how to live with uncertainty. And yet, Chelsea is still here. Still breathing. Still holding on. Still fighting with a strength that feels far greater than her size.
My name is Carol. I am Chelsea’s mother. And this is our story—a story of a child born too soon, and of a family learning what courage truly looks like.
A Miracle Long Awaited
Chelsea was not an accident or a surprise. She was deeply wanted. Prayed for. Dreamed of through years of sacrifice and longing.
My husband and I spent years apart, separated by borders and responsibilities. I worked overseas in Qatar, while he served as a nurse in Singapore. We lived parallel lives connected only by phone calls, messages, and the shared belief that our sacrifices would one day lead us to something beautiful. Loneliness became familiar. Waiting became normal. Hope became our anchor.
Then, finally, that long-awaited chapter arrived. We reunited. We married. We built a home. And soon after, I discovered I was pregnant.
Chelsea was our miracle—the physical embodiment of years of patience and faith. We imagined her future in vivid detail: her first smile, her laughter echoing through our home, the simple joy of holding her without fear. We believed the hardest part of our journey was behind us.
We never imagined how quickly everything could fall apart.
The Day Everything Changed
At 25 weeks into my pregnancy, without warning, I began bleeding heavily. Fear came instantly—sharp, overwhelming, paralyzing. Within hours, doctors rushed me into emergency care. There was no time to process, no time to prepare our hearts for what was coming.
Chelsea was born through normal delivery, but under devastating circumstances. Placental abruption and severe preeclampsia threatened both our lives. She arrived far too early, her body utterly unprepared for the world outside the womb.
She was tiny. Almost translucent. So fragile it hurt just to look at her.
Her lungs were critically underdeveloped. She could not breathe on her own. Doctors diagnosed her with respiratory distress, pulmonary hypertension, and multiple complications related to extreme prematurity. On June 26, 2025, Chelsea entered the NICU—a place that would become both her lifeline and the setting of our deepest fears.
Life Measured in Monitors and Moments
From the beginning, doctors were honest with us. Babies born this early face overwhelming odds. If Chelsea survived, they told us, she would likely remain in the NICU for six to nine months—possibly longer.
It has now been four months.
In that time, Chelsea has endured more than many experience in a lifetime. She has depended on mechanical ventilation to breathe. She has received blood transfusions. She has battled infections. She has undergone steroid treatments to help her lungs grow stronger. Each intervention carried risks. Each day arrived with no guarantees.
There were moments when her condition suddenly worsened. Moments when alarms rang and time seemed to stop. Moments when doctors spoke in quiet, careful tones, preparing us for possibilities no parent should ever have to imagine.
And still—Chelsea fought on.
Miracles Measured in Grams
Slowly, against all expectations, progress began to appear.
From just 365 grams at birth, Chelsea has grown to nearly 2 kilograms. Every gram felt like a triumph. Every small increase on the scale felt like a miracle whispered into our hearts. She began to tolerate feeds—first drops, then milliliters. Today, she takes 23 milliliters at a time, alternating between breastmilk and formula. Her body is learning how to accept nourishment. How to grow.
Her lungs, once impossibly fragile, are improving. She is now supported by CPAP—still needing help, but breathing more comfortably than before. A recent chest X-ray showed only a small patch, now being treated with physiotherapy. Her blood tests have returned normal, offering rare moments of relief.
Her Patent Ductus Arteriosus remains stable and closely monitored. Her eye examinations are currently at Stage 2, Zone 2—no intervention needed yet. For parents of a premature baby, these words are more than medical terms.
They are hope.
Moments We Dreamed Of
For months, Chelsea lived behind the walls of an incubator. Our touches were limited. Our voices soft. We watched her grow through plastic and glass, longing for a closeness we could not have.
Then one day, everything changed.
We heard her cry.
We held her in our arms.
We dressed her in the tiniest clothes we could find.
After months of waiting, fear, and longing, we finally shared our first cuddle. Feeling her warmth against our chest—even briefly—reminded us why we endure the exhaustion. Why we hold on through the uncertainty. Why we keep believing.
Chelsea is learning to suck on a pacifier. Doctors are preparing her for her first bottle feeds. To others, these may seem small. To us, they are monumental. Proof that she is learning how to live.
The Heavy Cost of Hope
Both my husband and I work in healthcare. He is a nurse. I am a clinic secretary. We understand medicine. We understand the importance of every treatment Chelsea receives.
But understanding does not make the financial burden lighter.
Even with Permanent Resident status in Singapore, we receive only limited subsidies. The estimated total cost of Chelsea’s care is SGD $920,000—a number that still feels unreal. We are fundraising in stages of SGD $92,000 to ensure her treatment continues without interruption.
We have done everything we can on our own. Now, we are asking for help.
A Parent’s Plea
This is the hardest thing we have ever done.
We are asking for help—not just to survive today, but to give our daughter a future. A chance to breathe on her own. A chance to leave the NICU. A chance to come home.
If you can donate, please do.
If you cannot, please share Chelsea’s story.
And if nothing else, please keep her in your prayers.
Every contribution goes directly to NUH for her medical care. Every share brings hope closer.
Chelsea was born too soon. But she is here. She is fighting. And with your support, she can keep going.
With deepest gratitude,
Carol & Ehrol
Parents of Chelsea Unica