The rhythmic thump of my baby’s heartbeat was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. My husband Donovan and I had been overjoyed when we learned we were expecting a little girl. After moving from Auckland to the Cayman Islands, we didn’t plan on starting a family right away. But when I found out I was pregnant in September 2015, we couldn’t have been happier. When we learned we were having a girl, we decided to name her Luna, a name that meant “moon” in Italian—a fitting choice for our precious baby.
But during a routine scan at 28 weeks, the sonographer’s face changed. She noticed that the right side of Luna’s heart appeared enlarged. Although she reassured us it wasn’t an immediate concern, she advised us to get it checked again once we returned to New Zealand. What followed was a whirlwind of emotions.
Once we were back in Auckland, our next scan revealed something far more alarming: Luna had a condition called hypoplastic left heart syndrome. This meant the left side of her heart hadn’t formed properly and couldn’t pump blood effectively. She was missing half of her heart. The doctor’s words were crushing. “It’s likely she won’t survive a week outside the womb,” he told us. We were given a difficult choice—terminate the pregnancy or prepare for palliative care after birth. There was a slim chance Luna could survive surgery, but the doctors wouldn’t know for sure until after she was born.
Devastated yet determined, we chose to give Luna a fighting chance. At 40 weeks, Luna was born by caesarean section. Holding her for the first time in the NICU, she looked perfect—like a pretty pink marshmallow. But the reality of her condition set in. Luna was immediately rushed into surgery at just two days old. Surgeons installed a shunt in her heart to help blood flow to her lungs. The surgery lasted 13 hours, but it was a success.
However, Luna’s journey was far from over. Two weeks later, a CT scan revealed that the shunt hadn’t been inserted far enough, so she underwent another surgery to have it corrected. Despite all the odds, Luna was released from the hospital just seven weeks after birth. But the challenges continued.
At five months old, Luna underwent her third open-heart surgery to redirect blood flow from her upper body to her lungs. Watching her slowly recover outside the hospital walls was incredible. She would often call the scar on her chest her “zipper,” and it didn’t faze her. Luna’s strength was inspiring.
By the time she was two, we were expecting another baby. Luna was excited to be a big sister, showering my belly with kisses. But we knew her heart would need another surgery to help it grow stronger. When the day arrived in April 2019, I was filled with anxiety. “I love you more than all the stars in the sky,” I whispered to her. The surgery was successful, but just days later, Luna developed a rare condition called chylothorax, where lymphatic fluid began accumulating around her lungs.
For the next four months, Luna’s condition worsened. She was severely underweight, her hair wasn’t growing, and her skin had lost its vibrancy. Doctors were stumped as to how to stop the fluid buildup. The situation grew so dire that we were told we might only have four more weeks with her if things didn’t improve.
In August 2019, just two weeks after we welcomed our son Gray, Donovan and I made the heartbreaking decision to take Luna home, so we could create precious memories together. But then something incredible happened. At home, Luna’s condition started to improve. She began eating better, was less breathless, and seemed to be gaining strength. Within weeks, the fluid around her lungs miraculously began to drain.
Now, at four years old, Luna is thriving. She started preschool earlier this year and is enjoying time with her friends. Though she can’t participate in contact sports or play in the playground, Luna loves dancing with her friends. She enjoys playing with Gray and is always the first to give him a kiss.
When asked what she wants to do when she grows up, Luna says, “I want to be a nurse on the heart ward and help kids like me.” It fills me with pride to know that despite everything she’s been through, Luna’s heart is filled with kindness and determination.
Our girl may only have half a heart, but it’s undoubtedly the biggest heart of all.
Miracle Survival: I Was Crushed by a Rolling Boulder 395
The mountains have always called to me. As a carpenter, I’ve spent countless hours working with my hands, building homes and restoring pieces of timber. But when I wasn’t working, I loved nothing more than hiking through the rugged landscapes that surrounded me, finding peace in the isolation of nature.
On a crisp day in June 2025, I set out on one of my favorite hiking trails along the Queensland coast. The sun was warm on my shoulders, and with my walking stick in hand, I carefully navigated the rocky path towards my favorite swimming hole. It was a remote spot, free of crowds and perfect for unwinding after a long workweek.
At 64, I was accustomed to taking on challenges. Life had thrown its fair share of obstacles my way, and I had always pushed through with resilience. But nothing could have prepared me for the life-altering event that would unfold on this day.
As I made my way down the path, I caught sight of the shimmering water ahead, feeling a sense of calm settle over me. But suddenly, disaster struck. The large grey boulder I was standing on shifted beneath my feet. Panic set in. “Oh my God, it’s rolling,” I thought, as the 1.2-meter-wide rock, much heavier than a washing machine, started to move. I scrambled to jump out of the way, but as I landed on the ground, I lost my footing and found myself in the direct path of the massive boulder.
The boulder careened toward me, and in what felt like slow motion, I saw it come crashing down, my right leg wedged between two other rocks. As the weight of the rock slammed onto my leg, I heard a sickening crunch. It felt as if my bones were snapping like twigs.
The shock of the moment left me temporarily numb. But as I looked down at my leg, my stomach churned with horror. My lower leg was completely flattened, almost severed, with only a thin layer of skin holding it to my knee. Blood poured from the wound, and I felt lightheaded, my body overwhelmed by the trauma.
With no one around for miles and no phone signal to call for help, I knew I had to act quickly. I still had my walking stick in hand, and using it as leverage, I tried to free my leg from the rocks. Every movement caused more pain, but I couldn’t afford to wait. I had to get out of there. Using all my strength, I dragged myself across the rocky path, each step excruciating.
After what felt like an eternity, I made it to my car. But my leg was in such a state that I could barely move it. I had no choice but to crawl into the driver’s seat, using my left leg to operate the pedals as I drove. Blood soaked the footwell of the car as I fought to stay conscious. With every bump in the road, my leg seemed to scream in agony, but somehow, I kept going.
I knew I needed help, and I needed it fast. I reached out to my ex, Kim, the mother of my two sons, Tyler and John. Despite our separation, Kim and I had remained close friends and shared a deep concern for each other’s well-being. “I need you to get me to the hospital,” I said, barely able to hold the phone steady. Kim was on her way within minutes, and when she arrived, she quickly helped me into her car and sped off to the hospital.
The medical staff at the hospital were swift in their action. I was rushed in for X-rays and blood tests. The doctor’s words hit me like a hammer: “You’ve lost over half your body’s blood volume, and your leg needs specialist care. It’s possible they’ll have to amputate.”
The reality of my situation hit hard. I had fought through so much in my life, but now, I faced the possibility of losing my leg—or worse. But as I was rushed to another hospital by helicopter for emergency surgery, I clung to the hope that I would make it through.
Surgery lasted hours, but eventually, doctors were able to save my leg, inserting a titanium rod to hold my bones together. I received a blood transfusion to stabilize me, and when I woke up, I was overjoyed to hear that my leg had been saved. I had made it. I wasn’t out of the woods yet, but I had survived.
Kim, Tyler, and John were by my side throughout the ordeal, helping me with everything from feeding to bathing. But just two days later, I was hospitalized again, this time with severe pneumonia. It felt as though life had thrown everything at me at once, but with the love and support of my family, I continued to fight.
It took months of recovery before I was able to walk again. I moved from a wheelchair to crutches and then, eventually, to a cane. The pain was constant, but I was determined to keep going. I had to, for my family, for myself.
And while my leg will never be as strong as it once was, I am determined to return to the mountains I love. The call of the wild is still there, and I refuse to let this accident define me.
Through it all, I’ve learned a valuable lesson: life is fragile, and we can’t take anything for granted. But every day I wake up, I remind myself of the strength within me and the love of my family. I have been given a second chance, and I plan to make the most of it.
Now, nearly two years after the accident, I’m taking small steps forward. The road to recovery is long, but I’m moving ahead with purpose. The mountains are still calling me, and one day, I’ll return.
