For years, Matthew Goodman’s war medals sat quietly in a drawer.
They were never displayed. Never polished. Never used to draw attention. To Matthew, a former Royal Marine, those medals were deeply personal—symbols of service, sacrifice, and survival. They represented years spent far from home, moments of fear and discipline, and choices made under extreme pressure. They carried memories that words could never fully capture.
And so, he kept them tucked away in silence.
Until one story changed everything.
When Matthew came across an online campaign for four-year-old Lottie Woods-John, something inside him shifted. Lottie was not connected to him by blood, friendship, or geography. He had never met her. Yet her story reached him in a way nothing else ever had.
Suddenly, those medals no longer felt like relics of the past.
They felt like a lifeline.
Lottie is just four years old. At an age when most children are learning to ride bikes, draw pictures, and chase bubbles in the garden, she is fighting neuroblastoma—a rare and aggressive childhood cancer that affects fewer than 100 children in the UK each year, most of them under the age of five.
Matthew read about her battle and felt his chest tighten.
“When I came across Lottie’s campaign, I was heartbroken,” he said. “Reading about a child going through that kind of suffering—it stays with you.”
A married father-of-one from Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, Matthew understands the instinct to protect a child at all costs. His daughter, Freya, is still young. The thought of watching her endure pain, invasive treatments, and the uncertainty of cancer was unbearable.
And in that moment, Matthew knew he couldn’t simply scroll past.
“I couldn’t do nothing,” he said quietly.
Matthew had served five years in the Royal Marines, completing tours in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Northern Ireland. His medals were earned through real danger—through endurance, courage, and commitment under circumstances few civilians ever experience.
Yet when he looked at them now, he saw something different.
“My medals were just sitting in a drawer doing nothing,” he explained. “If they could be used for something worthwhile—something that could help keep a little girl alive—then that mattered more.”
Without hesitation, Matthew listed all three of his service medals on eBay. There was no second-guessing, no emotional struggle over parting with them.
“They were awarded for the sacrifices I made,” he said. “But I’m happy to forgo that honour if it helps a child in desperate need.”
Lottie’s journey began in June 2016, when her parents, Charlotte Woods and David John, noticed subtle signs that something wasn’t right. Lottie was vomiting frequently, and at first, they believed it was nothing more than a stomach bug—something every parent encounters.
But when her tummy began to swell, fear crept in.
They rushed her to A&E at St Peter’s Hospital in Chertsey, Surrey, where doctors delivered news that shattered their world. Inside Lottie’s abdomen was a melon-sized tumour.
Further tests confirmed the worst: stage 4 neuroblastoma.
The cancer had already spread to her bones and bone marrow.
For Charlotte and David, life changed in an instant.
Lottie began chemotherapy immediately. Despite her tiny body, she endured round after round of harsh treatment with astonishing bravery. Hospital corridors became familiar. Needles, scans, and long nights replaced playdates and bedtime stories.
Last year, Lottie underwent a gruelling 13-hour operation, during which surgeons managed to remove 95 percent of the 12-centimetre tumour. It was a major victory—but not a cure.
Now, Lottie is receiving immunotherapy in the hope of destroying the remaining cancer cells. Yet doctors have delivered another devastating reality: she has only a 20 percent chance of surviving the next five years, and an 85 percent chance of relapse.
There is hope—but it lies far from home.
A groundbreaking vaccine treatment in the United States could significantly reduce the risk of the cancer returning. The treatment is cutting-edge, but the cost is overwhelming: £200,000.
And time is running out.
“We’re living day to day,” Charlotte said. “One minute Lottie is happily playing in the garden, and the next she’s spiking a temperature and being rushed to hospital in an ambulance. We don’t know what the future holds.”
Charlotte is now Lottie’s full-time carer, dedicating every moment to her daughter’s survival. The family needs to secure the vaccine treatment urgently—before the window of opportunity closes.
When Matthew reached out to say he was selling his medals to help, Charlotte was left stunned.
“I was speechless,” she said. “He risked his life for those medals. He doesn’t even know Lottie, and yet he’s willing to give them up to help keep her alive. It’s mind-blowing.”
Matthew, however, rejects the idea that he’s done anything extraordinary.
“Raising that amount of money is a monumental task,” he said. “But if people stand up and support families like Lottie’s, it makes all the difference.”
When the medals are gone, Matthew says he won’t feel loss—only purpose. In their place, he plans to wear a childhood cancer awareness ribbon.
“I want to set an example for my daughter,” he said. “To show her compassion. To show her that making sacrifices for others matters.”
Then he paused.
“For me,” he added softly, “nothing is worth a child’s life.”
And in that simple truth, Matthew Goodman’s decision becomes more than a gesture. It becomes a reminder that heroism doesn’t always happen on the battlefield.
Sometimes, it happens quietly—
in a drawer,
in a choice,
in the willingness to give up honour
so a child might have a future.
They Made Fun of His Scar… Not Knowing It Saved His Life
When Leo Hutchinson entered the world, he appeared healthy and perfect in every way. Like most newborns, he slept peacefully, curled into his parents’ arms, unaware that beneath his soft skin, something was already terribly wrong.
Hidden from view, the bones of Leo’s skull were fusing together far too early. As his brain began to grow—as every baby’s does—it had nowhere to expand. Week by week, pressure built inside his head, silently threatening his development, his eyesight, and his life itself.
Doctors soon delivered a diagnosis no parent is ever prepared to hear: sagittal craniosynostosis. It is a rare and dangerous congenital condition in which one or more seams of the skull close prematurely. Without urgent intervention, Leo faced a future of severe brain damage, permanent blindness, seizures—or death.
For Leo’s parents, the news was devastating. Their baby had only just begun life, yet every passing day without surgery brought him closer to irreversible harm. There was no choice, no alternative. Surgery was the only chance to save their son.
At just seven months old, Leo was taken into the operating theatre at Birmingham Children’s Hospital. His tiny body lay surrounded by machines and wires, his future resting entirely in the hands of surgeons. His parents kissed him goodbye, trying to stay strong as doors closed behind him.
What followed were nine excruciating hours of waiting.
Time seemed to stop. Every minute felt heavy with fear. Every thought carried the same terrifying question: Would their baby survive?
Inside the operating room, surgeons carefully cut, separated, and reconstructed Leo’s skull, reshaping it piece by piece to create space for his growing brain. The procedure was delicate, complex, and filled with risk—but it was also nothing short of miraculous.
When the surgery finally ended, Leo was alive.
His life had been saved.
But survival came with a visible reminder—a long scar stretching from ear to ear across his head. It was bold, unmistakable, impossible to ignore. For anyone unfamiliar with his story, it might have looked shocking. For Leo’s family, it was a symbol of hope, sacrifice, and second chances.
As Leo grew, something remarkable happened.
He didn’t hide his scar.
He didn’t feel ashamed of it.
He wore his hair short and faced the world with confidence.
Leo grew into a bright, joyful child who loved football, toy cars, and making people laugh. He was curious, energetic, and full of life. The scar that once terrified his parents became simply a part of who he was—a quiet badge of survival worn without fear.
But Leo’s journey was not over.
At just two years old, doctors discovered swelling near his optic nerve. Once again, his eyesight—and his future—were at risk. Leo underwent a second operation, during which surgeons placed screws in his skull to relieve the pressure and protect his vision.
For a child so young, it was another battle no one should have to face.
Yet Leo endured.
He continued to grow, play, and smile, carrying a strength far beyond his years. His scars never defined him. If anything, they reflected the resilience that lived inside him.
This year marked an important milestone. Leo was preparing to start school—a moment filled with excitement, nerves, and pride. Like many children, he wanted to feel confident. He wanted to look smart. A simple haircut felt like a big step.
So his dad took him to a barbershop in Cardiff. It was meant to be an ordinary, happy moment—a father and son, sharing laughter and anticipation.
But outside that barbershop, everything changed.
A group of teenagers walked past. They noticed Leo’s haircut. Then they noticed the scars on his head. And instead of empathy, they chose cruelty.
They laughed.
They mocked.
They made comments without understanding what they were looking at.
In a matter of seconds, words spoken without thought shattered something precious.
For the first time in his life, Leo felt embarrassed by his scars. The same scars he had once worn with pride suddenly felt like something to hide. He pulled his hoodie up over his head and kept it there for the rest of the day, shrinking away from the world.
When Leo’s mother, Georgia Hutchinson, heard what had happened, her heart broke.
Her son—who had faced surgeries, hospitals, and life-threatening odds—had been undone not by pain, but by cruelty. Years of quiet confidence were shaken by strangers who never stopped to think.
“It broke his little heart,” Georgia said.
Those teenagers didn’t know Leo’s story.
They didn’t know about the sleepless nights in hospital.
They didn’t know about the nine-hour surgery.
They didn’t know that doctors once warned his parents that their baby might not survive.
They didn’t know that without those scars, Leo wouldn’t be alive.
According to the charity Headlines, craniosynostosis affects around one in every 2,000 babies in the UK. Thousands of children grow up carrying scars that tell stories of survival—stories written long before they could speak.
These scars are not signs of weakness.
They are evidence of courage.
They are proof that medicine, love, and determination can rewrite fate.
Leo did not choose his condition.
He did not choose surgery.
He did not choose scars.
But every single day, he chooses bravery simply by being himself.
Cruel words may have shaken his confidence for a moment, but they do not define his future. Leo’s scar is not something to hide—it is a reminder that he fought for his life before most children take their first breath.
It is the mark of a battle survived.
A life saved.
A story that deserves to be told.
Because what some people laughed at…
is the very reason Leo is alive today.
A Fight for Joe’s Life: How Hope, Family, and Kindness Carried Us Through
When I found out I was pregnant with our fourth child, I was filled with nothing but joy. Our family already felt complete with our three wonderful boys, and the thought of welcoming another baby made our hearts even fuller. The pregnancy was smooth and uncomplicated, and I eagerly looked forward to meeting our son, Joe, and settling into life as a family of six.
Joe’s birth was straightforward, and in those early weeks, everything felt normal. We adjusted to sleepless nights, cuddles, and the simple happiness that comes with a newborn. There was no warning, no indication that our lives were about to change forever.
When Joe was just ten weeks old, he became unwell. At first, it seemed like nothing more than a common childhood illness. We visited our GP several times and even went to our local hospital, but each time we were reassured that it was simply a viral infection that would pass on its own. Deep down, though, something didn’t feel right. As the days went by, Joe’s condition continued to deteriorate.
One evening, while I was breastfeeding him, everything suddenly changed. Joe began to bleed profusely from his mouth. Panic set in instantly. I called an ambulance, and within minutes we were rushing to the hospital, terrified and desperate for answers.
From the moment we arrived, the seriousness of the situation became clear. Joe’s condition worsened rapidly—he stopped breathing and required immediate life-saving intervention. He was intubated and transferred to the Paediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU). Our world became a blur of alarms, medical equipment, and doctors moving at incredible speed.
We were told Joe had pneumococcal meningitis and sepsis. His life was in immediate danger, and every passing minute felt like a battle between hope and heartbreak. We were completely overwhelmed, trying to process how a seemingly healthy baby could suddenly be fighting for his life.
Amid the fear and uncertainty, another reality hit us—we were separated from our three older boys. They needed us just as much as Joe did, and we were suddenly faced with the impossible task of being in two places at once. Hospital life consumed us, and we had no idea how long this nightmare would last.
That was when we were introduced to Ronald McDonald House Charities UK.
We had seen the charity’s name before and were familiar with their work, but never in our wildest dreams did we imagine needing their support. When the hospital offered us a room at the Ronald McDonald House located just across from the hospital, it felt like a lifeline had been thrown to us.
The House allowed us to stay just steps away from Joe while keeping our family together. For the first time since Joe became ill, we were able to breathe. We didn’t have to spend hours travelling back and forth, and our older children had a safe, stable place to stay during a time of complete upheaval.
The Ronald McDonald House quickly became more than just somewhere to sleep—it became our sanctuary. After long, emotionally draining days in the hospital, we could return to a warm, welcoming environment. The staff greeted us with kindness and understanding, offering comfort without ever needing explanations. The simple things—home-cooked meals, clean clothes, quiet moments—meant more than we can ever put into words.
One of the most precious moments during Joe’s hospital stay was being able to cook meals for our three boys and spend time together as a family in the House. From the window, I could see Joe’s hospital room, which gave me peace of mind knowing I was never far from him. In those moments, surrounded by my children, we felt like a family again—not just parents in survival mode.
Joe’s journey was incredibly hard. He underwent multiple surgeries, including procedures to drain abscesses and fight severe infections. Complications followed—blood clots, seizures, and repeated setbacks that tested us in ways we never imagined. There were days when the outcome felt unbearably uncertain.
But Joe was a fighter.
After more than a month in PICU, his condition finally stabilised enough for him to be transferred to a general ward. We remained at Ronald McDonald House throughout his recovery, knowing we could be by his side at any moment.
After nearly three months in hospital, we were finally able to bring Joe home. Leaving the Ronald McDonald House was emotional—it had been our safe haven during the darkest chapter of our lives. While we were relieved to start a new chapter at home, we knew Joe’s journey was far from over. Ongoing care, monitoring, and medical appointments would continue to be part of our lives.
Today, Joe is a thriving, energetic, and joyful child. Every milestone he reaches is a reminder of just how close we came to losing him—and how many people played a part in saving his life. We often reflect on how impossible that journey would have been without the support of Ronald McDonald House Charities.
The House gave us more than a place to stay—it gave us hope, strength, and the ability to stay together as a family when everything felt uncertain. It reminded us that we were not alone.
We will forever be grateful for the compassion and support we received, and we are committed to giving back in any way we can. Our story is living proof of the life-changing impact Ronald McDonald House Charities has on families facing the unthinkable.
To any parent walking a similar path, please know this: even in the darkest moments, there is hope. With early medical intervention, dedicated healthcare teams, and the kindness of organisations like Ronald McDonald House Charities, miracles do happen.
Our Little Heart Warrior: Harrison’s Journey from Diagnosis to Hope
What was supposed to be a joyful milestone in our pregnancy became the moment our lives changed forever.
On July 23rd, 2024, my husband Deen and I went in for what we believed would be a routine 20-week anatomy scan. Everything appeared normal at first. Measurements were on track, and we felt reassured — until the sonographer mentioned that our baby boy wasn’t positioned correctly to clearly see the chambers of his heart. We were told not to worry and asked to return the following week for a re-scan.
I left work that day thinking I would be gone for no more than an hour. Instead, I spent the entire afternoon in the hospital. The sonographer scanned, sent us out, brought us back in, scanned again — over and over — until finally she paused and said the words that still echo in my mind:
“I feel the heart looks abnormal.”
Deen and I looked at each other in complete shock. Fear rushed in instantly. This had never crossed our minds.
We were placed in a consultation room and left waiting for nearly an hour, trapped in silence, not knowing what was wrong or what was coming next. When the specialist finally entered, she asked if we knew what the sonographer had seen. We didn’t. She gently explained her findings — a hole in the heart, and a pulmonary valve that appeared enlarged.
We were immediately referred to fetal cardiology. They told us the appointment would be within days, and unbelievably, we received the referral the very next day. That day felt endless — one that will stay with us forever.
During the fetal heart scan, the team reassured us, saying, “Please don’t worry if we’re quiet — we’re just concentrating and will explain everything afterward.” Still, every second felt heavy.
In the consultation room, the cardiologist carefully walked us through her findings using diagrams of a normal heart and then explaining how they believed our baby’s heart — Harrison’s heart — was functioning. The possible diagnoses were overwhelming: coarctation of the aorta, an atrial septal defect (ASD), two ventricular septal defects (VSDs), and possible aortic stenosis.
The consultant reassured us that the heart could be repaired — but there was another concern: a possible genetic condition, DiGeorge syndrome (22q11 deletion). We were offered an amniocentesis to rule out genetic disorders.
Afterward, we sat in the car and cried uncontrollably. We had no idea what the future held for our baby boy. A few hours later, we returned for the amniocentesis. The hospital staff were incredibly kind and compassionate, guiding us through one of the hardest days of our lives.
The wait that followed was torture. Two weeks of fear, grief, and endless “what ifs.” Then, ten days later, the results came back — completely clear. No genetic conditions. Harrison’s heart defects were isolated.
From that point on, we attended monthly fetal cardiology appointments with the same consultant. She became a familiar face and was about 89% certain Harrison had coarctation of the aorta along with two large VSDs.
In November, I was induced. After days of labor, Harrison was born. I was terrified to hold him, knowing he would be transferred to NICU — but they placed him in my arms first. That moment was everything. Soon after, he was taken to NICU, and we followed immediately. Seeing him there, so small yet so strong, we instantly fell in love with our little heart warrior.
The following morning, Harrison was transferred to the heart center. After seven anxious days of monitoring and tests, doctors ruled out coarctation of the aorta and aortic stenosis. They believed it was “just” a VSD. We were discharged that Friday and finally brought our baby home.
But our relief was short-lived.
At a routine midwife appointment the following Monday, Harrison’s oxygen saturation levels were low, and his resting heart rate was 170 beats per minute. An ambulance rushed him to our local hospital, and from there, he was transferred back to the heart center.
This time, doctors confirmed that Harrison had a large ASD in addition to the VSD — and supraventricular tachycardia (SVT), meaning his heart was beating abnormally fast due to the extra workload from the holes.
We stayed another seven days. When discharged, Harrison was on multiple medications — diuretics to support his heart and propranolol to control the SVT.
We made it home for Christmas, grateful for every moment. But from January to May 2025, Harrison was admitted to the hospital five times. Even mild colds overwhelmed him. At one point, he developed pneumonia. His lung pressures weren’t dropping, and our consultant made the decision no parent is ever fully ready for: it was time for surgery.
No amount of preparation can truly prepare you for seeing your child after heart surgery. The wires, the tubes, the machines — it’s terrifying. He didn’t look like himself. But we knew he was in the best hands. And then something incredible happened.
Harrison recovered quickly. Within five days, we were discharged — something we never imagined possible.
Since surgery, everything has changed. Harrison feeds better. He stays awake longer. He smiles more. He is happier, stronger, and finally able to be a baby without his heart working against him.
We will forever be grateful to the hospitals, doctors, nurses, and staff who cared for our son with such compassion and dedication. Their love for patients and families is beyond words.
We are still waiting for Harrison’s lung pressures to fully settle, but today, he is thriving.
He is strong.
He is resilient.
And he truly is our little heart warrior.
