From the moment I learned I was pregnant with Oliver at just eighteen years old, my life changed forever. What should have been a season filled with innocent excitement, baby names, and dreams of the future quickly became a journey marked by fear, courage, and a kind of love I never knew existed. I was young, overwhelmed, and unprepared for what lay ahead—but from the very beginning, Oliver taught me what it truly meant to be strong.
At my 20-week scan, the room grew quiet in a way that every parent dreads. The technician’s expression shifted, and I felt a heaviness settle in my chest before a single word was spoken. Hours later, after countless tests and long, anxious waits, I was told news that would shatter my world: Oliver’s heart was not developing as it should. He was diagnosed with Pulmonary Atresia, Double Outlet Right Ventricle, and a large Ventricular Septal Defect (VSD). The fetal cardiologists rated his condition as a 9 to 10 out of 10—where 10 meant the most severe.
They explained it clinically, gently, but nothing could soften the meaning of their words. They told me that if I continued the pregnancy, Oliver’s life expectancy might only be a week. The blood vessels in his heart were so narrow they compared them to the thickness of a cotton thread instead of the healthy width of a pen. I remember feeling numb, as if the ground beneath me had disappeared. I was devastated. Terrified. Heartbroken before I had even held my son.
But somewhere deep inside me, a quiet voice spoke louder than fear. I knew I could not give up on my baby. I could not walk away from him, even if the odds were stacked impossibly high. I chose to continue the pregnancy—not because I was fearless, but because my love for Oliver was already stronger than any diagnosis. I promised him that no matter how long his life would be, I would fight for him with everything I had.
On May 13, 2017, Oliver made his entrance into the world—screaming, kicking, and full of life. Against all expectations, he arrived with a fierce spirit, as if announcing to everyone that he was here to fight. The moment I saw him, I knew I had given birth to a warrior. He was tiny, fragile, and perfect. In his small hands and bright eyes, I saw a strength that took my breath away.
Just five days after birth, Oliver was transferred to Alder Hey for specialized care. Our lives became measured in hospital corridors, monitors beeping, and waiting rooms filled with hope and heartbreak. On May 30, he was placed on the list for his first heart procedure. The plan was to insert a stent through his groin to open his vessels—a less invasive option that might spare him a chest incision. It was supposed to be a four-hour procedure.
Instead, it became the first nightmare of many.
As the stent touched his heart, Oliver went into cardiac arrest. For twenty endless minutes, his tiny heart was flatlined. Twenty minutes that felt like a lifetime. I watched doctors and nurses fight for him with everything they had—using a defibrillator, performing chest compressions, praying for a miracle. When they finally found a pulse, Oliver was rushed into emergency open-heart surgery. What should have been routine became a nine-and-a-half-hour battle for his life. That day changed us forever.
Over the months that followed, Oliver endured more than most adults ever will. Four open-heart surgeries. Multiple rounds on the ECMO bypass machine. Weeks on a ventilator. He fought for every breath, every heartbeat, every single moment. Each day came with new fears, new complications, and new reasons to hope. We lived in a constant state of uncertainty, always asking ourselves the same painful question: Will he make it through this one?
On June 15, 2017, Cassidy—Oliver’s father—and I were called into a room that no parent ever wants to enter. The doctors sat us down and said the words that shattered us: “We think it’s time to let Oliver go peacefully.” It felt as if the air had been sucked from my lungs. How do you even begin to process something like that? How do you say goodbye to a child who has fought so hard to live?
But Oliver wasn’t ready.
In a turn that felt nothing short of miraculous, within 48 hours of being taken off life support, he began to show signs of improvement. He started waking from sedation. His little body rallied once more. It was as if he was telling us, in his own quiet way, that he still had more to give. That his fight wasn’t over yet.
His recovery was anything but easy. Oliver developed diaphragmatic paralysis, causing his left diaphragm to crush his lung. Doctors struggled to understand why it wasn’t healing. More surgeries followed. More waiting. More prayers whispered into sterile hospital rooms late at night. Every small victory felt monumental. Every setback felt crushing.
After 110 long days in the hospital, we were finally able to bring Oliver home.
That moment was filled with overwhelming joy—and deep fear. For the first time, our warrior was where he belonged, in our arms, in our home. We cherished every ordinary moment because we knew nothing about our life was ordinary. We celebrated his first Halloween, Christmas, and New Year’s with hearts overflowing with gratitude. We even held a naming ceremony for Oliver—a beautiful celebration of love, faith, and the family we had fought so hard to be together.
On his first birthday, we threw him a party filled with balloons, a big Peppa Pig cake, and as much love as we could pour into a single day. Oliver’s smile lit up the room. His laughter was infectious. Despite everything he had endured, he was the happiest little boy. He taught everyone around him what pure joy looked like. He reminded us that life, no matter how short or fragile, is meant to be celebrated.
And then, just two days after his first birthday, our world stopped.
Oliver’s heart, which had fought so bravely for so long, simply could not go on. He passed away peacefully in our arms. Our little warrior, who had faced more pain than any child ever should, finally rested. In his final moments, he was surrounded by love—held, cherished, and never alone.
The pain of losing Oliver is something no parent should ever have to endure. There is a silence in our lives now that can never truly be filled. A space in our hearts that will always belong to him. We are endlessly grateful for the time we were given, for the incredible hospital staff who fought beside us, and for the friends and family who carried us through our darkest days.
Oliver was more than his diagnosis. He was more than a medical chart or a list of conditions. He was a son. A fighter. A light. A teacher. In his short life, he showed us the true meaning of resilience, unconditional love, and the strength of the human spirit.
His legacy will live on in everything we do. We will continue to honor him by raising awareness for congenital heart disease and fighting for other children like him. Oliver may have only lived for a short time, but his impact will last a lifetime.
Rest in peace, our sweet Oliver. You will forever be our little warrior. You are, and always will be, in our hearts. 💙