The moment we learned we were finally going to become parents was the happiest of our lives. After almost a decade of longing, countless tears, heartbreaks, and hope that sometimes felt fragile, the news that a tiny life was growing inside Kodie was everything we had dreamed of. We allowed ourselves to imagine his first laugh, his tiny fingers curled around ours, the warmth of holding him close. But life, unavoidably and cruelly, reminded us that miracles often come wrapped in the most painful battles.
At 35 weeks pregnant, while preparing our home for what should have been pure joy, something didn’t feel right. Kodie noticed that our little boy, whom we would name Eli, was moving less than usual. A simple concern turned into a frantic scan. Our hearts pounded, and before we could even understand the weight of it, the doctor’s face told us something was terribly wrong.
The ultrasound revealed a tennis-ball-sized tumor pressing against his tiny chest, squeezing his right lung, pulling at his heart and life before he had even breathed on his own. The doctors were brutal in their honesty.
“He might not survive delivery,” they said. He might not live.
We were shattered.
Suddenly, every future memory became uncertain. Every imagined moment filled with fear instead of joy. We weren’t just about to welcome a baby — we were about to enter a war no parent should ever face.
Despite the risk, Kodie was given steroid injections to prepare Eli’s body for what might be his first and last breath. Four weeks early, our precious boy arrived by C-section, fragile and fighting for life. He weighed 3.8 kilograms — a small weight, but a giant heart already beating for survival.
But survival was only the beginning of a storm.
He was whisked straight to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU), intubated and wrapped in wires and machines that became as familiar to us as the sound of our own breath. The doctor looked us in the eyes and gave the harshest prognosis imaginable: “He’s unlikely to survive beyond three days.”
In those three days, time slowed. We held our breath, watched every blink, every tiny kick in his incubator. We questioned every choice we had ever made. The doctors gave us options — make him comfortable and let nature take its course, attempt a risky surgery, or begin chemotherapy, a treatment never before tried on a body so small.
With trembling voices and hearts heavier than we ever imagined possible, we chose life. We chose hope.
The next seven weeks were a blur of tears, sleepless nights, and moments that balanced between life and death. Chemotherapy for a baby so small felt unimaginable. Every day we wondered if this was the day we would lose him, if the hope we clung to would finally slip through our fingers.
But Eli refused to give up.
He endured treatment with a courage that defied his tender age. As New Year’s Eve approached, something miraculous happened — he was well enough to go home. Discharged, fragile yet alive, we carried his tiny form into the world we had once thought would never hold him.
The relief was immense. But peace was short-lived.
A few weeks later, routine scans showed the tumor had grown — four times larger than before. The fear returned with even greater force than the first time. The doctors said his condition was now critical, far worse than ever. In April, he was placed into palliative care — a place where hope often goes to fade. They gave him 48 hours to live.
Just 48 hours.
“Enjoy your child,” the doctor said.
For a moment, we felt like time had stopped completely. We packed a bag, prepared for the worst, and moved into the hospital room where we expected to say goodbye to the life we had fought so hard to protect.
But once again, Eli proved that miracles are not gentle — they are fierce.
Hours passed. Then days. Then weeks. Without any active treatment — only fluids to support his tiny body — he began to improve. It felt impossible. Unbelievable. And yet, there he was — growing stronger each moment.
After eight weeks in the hospital, we brought him home again.
Today, five months after being told he would not survive another two days, Eli thrives. He is no longer undergoing active treatment and has reached milestones doctors once thought impossible. He celebrated his first birthday. He took his first steps. He said his first words.
Each of these moments — small on the surface, monumental beneath — represents more than a developmental milestone. They are proof that choice, love, perseverance, and faith can reshape destiny.
We live with the knowledge that each day with him is precious. We’ve learned what it means to cherish moments most people take for granted — laughter around the breakfast table, spontaneous little giggles, the warmth of tiny arms wrapped around our necks. These moments are gifts, forged in a fire we never expected to endure.
Doctors have placed Eli on a list for a new treatment trial in the U.S., and hope remains that when he is older, surgery may one day remove the tumor that once threatened his life. But for now, we celebrate him — not just for surviving, but for thriving.
This journey has taught us that life is more fragile and more fierce than we ever imagined. It has taught us that love can become a force stronger than fear, that a tiny human heart can beat with unstoppable resilience, and that hope can persist even when science, logic, and reason seem to disappear.
We look at Eli now and see not a boy defined by illness, but a boy defined by strength, courage, and an unstoppable will to live. He is our miracle, not despite his battle, but because of every challenge he faced and overcame.
He refused to give up. And because of that, our lives are infinitely more beautiful, infinitely more meaningful, and infinitely more grateful than they have ever been.
Every day with him is a blessing. Every smile he shares is a triumph. And every heartbeat he has is a testament to a truth we now live by — miracles do happen, and sometimes, they are wrapped in the body of a tiny, brave child.