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.
When a Mother Refused to Give Up: Nancy’s Fight with Ependymoma
A mother’s love has a strength that surfaces most fiercely in the darkest moments. For Gemma, that strength became her anchor when her daughter Nancy — just 14 months old — was diagnosed with ependymoma, a rare and dangerous brain tumor. What began as ordinary concern soon became a desperate fight for Nancy’s life, shaped by misdiagnosis, relentless advocacy, and extraordinary resilience.
In September 2023, Nancy began vomiting repeatedly. Her parents took her to a walk-in clinic, where doctors attributed her symptoms to tonsillitis. Medication was prescribed, but nothing improved. Days turned into weeks, and Nancy’s condition rapidly declined. She became lethargic, unable to move properly, and began experiencing uncontrollable shaking in her right arm.
Gemma knew something was terribly wrong. She pushed for further medical attention, taking Nancy to A&E, where tests again failed to provide answers. Still, Gemma refused to leave. Her instincts told her this was more than an illness that would simply pass.
Eventually, an MRI revealed the truth — a large tumor on the left side of Nancy’s brain. The initial prognosis was devastating. Doctors warned the tumor was inoperable and that surgery would likely be fatal. But in a critical turning point, a compassionate nurse urged the family to seek another opinion. A new medical team reviewed Nancy’s scans and believed there was hope.
Nancy was immediately placed on a steroid drip to reduce swelling in her brain. Just days later, she underwent her first brain surgery. Against the odds, surgeons successfully removed 95% of the tumor. Complications followed. Nancy suffered seizures and was transferred to intensive care. Swelling between her brain and skull caused painful body spasms, but even then, her spirit remained strong. After treatment, she returned to her cheerful, determined self.
The tumor was confirmed as ependymoma. Doctors recommended a second surgery to remove what remained — a portion that had already begun dying on its own. The second operation was successful, and for the first time, the family allowed themselves to breathe.
But the battle wasn’t over. Nancy began an intense chemotherapy regimen that would last until early 2025. A Hickman line was fitted, and she bravely endured treatment well beyond her years. Due to the strength of the chemotherapy, doctors made the difficult decision to remove and preserve one of Nancy’s ovaries to protect her future fertility.
Through it all, Nancy kept smiling. Gemma and her partner Aaron became fierce advocates, celebrating every small victory — a laugh, a step forward, a good scan. Their determination and refusal to accept uncertainty saved their daughter’s life. In January 2025, after a year of grueling treatment, Nancy rang the bell — signaling the end of chemotherapy. Her blood levels returned to normal, and she entered remission.
Though her journey continues with regular MRIs and hearing monitoring, Nancy is doing well. She is living proof of what perseverance, love, and advocacy can achieve. Gemma now shares one message with other parents: “Trust your instincts. Put your foot down. Always get a second opinion.” Nancy’s story is one of survival, but it is also a reminder of the many children still fighting. Continued research and support are essential to ensure every child with cancer has the chance to grow, thrive, and live a full life.
Nancy faced the unimaginable — and won. And her story stands as a testament to the power of a mother’s love, and the miracles that happen when hope refuses to let go.
A Life Loved Before Birth: In Memory of Hunter Marvin Fricks
Some lives unfold in ways the world can see—marked by first steps, birthdays, and shared memories. Others exist more quietly, known fully only by the hearts that carried them. Hunter Marvin Fricks belongs to the second kind. He was a baby boy deeply loved and longed for long before his birth. Though his time in this world was heartbreakingly brief, his life will always matter—not because of how long it lasted, but because of how deeply he was loved.
Hunter was expected to arrive on January 31, 2026, a date filled with anticipation and gentle hope. His family imagined that future in small, tender moments—wondering what he might look like, how he would feel in their arms, and how his presence would forever change their lives. Even before he was born, Hunter already had a place. He already belonged. He already mattered. Love had begun quietly, growing through whispered conversations, shared plans, and the simple belief that something beautiful was coming. Hunter was never just an idea; he was a real son and a real grandson, cherished in ways that loss could never erase.
On November 8, 2025, that future changed in a way no family is ever prepared for. Hunter was born still, and the moment that should have been filled with cries and first breaths arrived instead in silence. In a single instant, hope and grief collided, leaving his family holding both at once.
Stillbirth carries a unique and devastating pain—where birth and goodbye exist in the same moment. There is no gentle transition, no time to adjust, only the sudden realization that the life imagined will never unfold. Hunter’s family faced that truth with hearts already full of love, now broken by sorrow.
Yet even in the silence, Hunter was not alone. He was surrounded by love that had claimed him long before that day. He was held in hearts that will continue to carry him forward, long after the moment passed.
Hunter’s grandmother shared words that reflect the enduring strength of that love—speaking of missing him deeply, loving him endlessly, and holding onto the hope of meeting him again one day. In her words live both grief and devotion, pain and promise, woven together in a way only love can manage.
Grandparents often imagine futures stretching far ahead, filled with quiet pride and small moments. For Hunter’s grandmother, that future was interrupted, but the love behind it was not erased. It remains steady and unwavering, untouched by time or circumstance.
Hunter was a precious grandson, a beloved son, and an inseparable part of a family whose story will always include him. His life did not need years to be meaningful. His existence alone changed the people who loved him, shaping their hearts in ways the world may never fully see.
Grief after stillbirth is often invisible. There are no shared memories others can easily recognize, no photos of first smiles or first steps. But invisibility does not mean insignificance—and Hunter’s life is proof of that truth.
His family carries not only the pain of losing him, but also the responsibility of remembering him. Speaking his name is an act of courage. Remembering him openly is a declaration that his life mattered, and always will.
Hunter mattered because he was loved before he was ever seen. He mattered because he was hoped for, planned for, and welcomed in spirit long before his birth. He mattered because love does not require time to be real.
The loss of a child born still is also the loss of an imagined future—the birthdays that will never be celebrated, the holidays that will always feel incomplete, and the quiet moments when absence feels louder than sound. These losses become woven into daily life, appearing without warning.
And yet, within that grief, there is devotion. Hunter is not a secret, nor a forgotten chapter. He is a permanent part of his family’s story, spoken of with tenderness and carried with intention.
Today, we honor Hunter Marvin Fricks by acknowledging his life and the love that surrounds it. We hold his family close in our thoughts, recognizing both their heartbreak and their strength. Honoring him is not about reopening wounds, but about validating a love that never had the chance to grow outward.
Remembering a child like Hunter is an act of compassion. It affirms that grieving families are seen, that their child deserves to be known, and that love does not end with loss. It creates space for honesty, remembrance, and shared humanity.
