Let’s rewind to a time when the term “medical mom” didn’t even exist in my vocabulary. Honestly, I hadn’t known anyone who spent long periods in the hospital, and “Children’s Hospital” was just a phrase I had never heard. Looking back now, that feels almost sad—I never want to return to the small-mindedness of my younger self. Becoming a medical mom has reshaped everything I value in life. It taught me where my effort matters most: not in dwelling on the hand we were dealt, but in educating, raising awareness about rare diseases, and lifting others up. That’s where my own healing comes from—helping others heal helps me heal too.
Months after my husband and I suffered a miscarriage, I became pregnant with Bella, our rainbow baby. Naïve to the realities of parenthood, we had no strict birth plan—no breastfeeding-only rules, no rigid schedules. We didn’t even know her gender. We were simply ready to follow our baby’s lead and trust the doctors’ guidance. That openness turned out to be vital, because once Bella arrived, the choices we expected didn’t exist. She needed IV nutrition and an NG tube from the start—breast milk or bottle was never an option.
I had no idea she would stop growing in my second trimester, or that she would be born with not one but two extremely rare conditions, along with dwarfism. I couldn’t have imagined the life we were about to step into. Throughout pregnancy, Bella was active, constantly kicking, rolling, and reassuring me with her movements. She calmed my nerves long before we even met her.
At the time, I was a public school teacher, a typical Saskatchewan girl, newly married, and excited but terrified at the thought of pregnancy. My pregnancy with Bella was unusually easy—I never got sick, not once, and felt well as my little “basketball” bounced around with me everywhere I went. But when my doctor noticed Bella had stopped growing mid-pregnancy, we were reassured it wasn’t alarming—she might just be small. We didn’t know this was the first sign of dwarfism and other serious health issues.
My due date ended up being a moving target. Initially, the second ultrasound suggested December 5, 2013. But after a 6-month MRI, doctors gave a range from November 21 to mid-December. They settled on November 28 as “official,” yet Bella arrived on December 6—a week technically overdue, yet perfectly on time in her own way.
My labor began in the early hours at 2 a.m., though my water had actually been leaking earlier without my knowing. After 30 hours of labor that stalled at 6 cm and developed a fever, I had an emergency C-section. The moment Bella emerged, the anesthesiologist peeked over the blue sheet and declared, “It’s a girl!” My recovery blurred as she was whisked away for assessment, my husband following the pediatrician while I tried to regain my strength post-op.
December 6, 2013, I became a mom. December 8, I became a medical mom. Within 72 hours, Bella began vomiting, hadn’t passed stool, had an NG tube in her nose, IVs in her head, and was flown to the nearest NICU. That was my initiation—gruelling, terrifying, and only the beginning. PTSD, medical trauma, and mental health struggles were waiting in the wings. I had no idea the battle we were entering, just to keep our newborn alive.
Faith became my anchor. Growing up in a Christian home, prayer was a lifeline, a reminder that miracles exist. Bella’s survival, despite being born with SCID—Severe Combined Immunodeficiency, meaning no immune system, no T-cells, no B-cells—felt like God’s hand at work. At 11 months old, doctors looked me in the eye and said, “It’s a miracle she’s alive.” No medical reasoning explained her survival.
Those first 11 months were relentless. Bella endured four major bowel surgeries for Hirschsprung’s disease, septic shock, and countless hospital days. We hadn’t gone home yet. Each surgery was a risk, exposing her immune-less body to infection, yet she survived. The first year was spent almost entirely in hospital, with me by her crib and my husband driving back and forth to maintain work and home life. Eventually, we transferred to Alberta Children’s Hospital, now six hours from home, as doctors navigated her complex conditions.
That first year broke me in every way, yet shaped me. I sat by her crib, exhausted, barely standing, praying she wouldn’t choke, praying each surgery went well. The hospital walls became our life. Watching her endure pain, countless needles, cords, and vomiting, while remaining resilient, was unbearable—but also awe-inspiring.
Then came SCID treatment: a bone marrow transplant. Just as I thought the worst was behind us, we learned Bella’s immune system was nonexistent. The doctors warned another year of hospital life. It felt like the air had been sucked from my lungs. But this moment marked my transformation. I realized I could let fear and anger consume me, or I could channel every ounce of energy into a new version of myself: a medical mom who shares the journey, educates others, and uses hardship as fuel.
I began sharing online, choosing positivity over complaints. I saw the impact immediately—other parents struggling in hospital rooms began finding hope, advice, and reassurance from our story. I realized that by lifting others, I was lifting myself. Every post, every interaction, became part of my healing. The peaks and valleys of hospital life transformed into lessons, advocacy, and inspiration.
Over 844 days in hospital awaited Bella’s bowel transplant, yet each day strengthened me. Choosing to share the journey, honestly and positively, gives others hope and courage. Watching Bella face her medical mountains with light, joy, and resilience teaches me what matters most: love, faith, and the power of community.
I never want to return to who I was before Bella, before I became a medical mom. She has shown me what truly matters, how to find joy in the hardest moments, and how to be brave, even when life is unimaginably hard. Her strength, her courage, her heart—that is my guide. And together, we are Bella Brave.
