When you’re expecting a baby, you imagine soft blankets, tiny socks, and the moment you’ll finally hold your child against your chest. You never imagine sitting in a dim scan room, gripping your partner’s hand, hearing the words
“something is wrong with the heart.”
But that is exactly where our journey with Otis began—at our 20-week scan, in a room that suddenly felt too quiet, too sharp, too heavy.
The sonographer frowned gently at the screen, her polite small talk disappearing. She excused herself and left the room. Minutes felt like entire lifetimes before she returned and told us we needed to be referred immediately to fetal medicine specialists.
That was the moment everything changed.
At the fetal medicine unit, consultants examined every chamber, vessel and rhythm of our baby’s tiny heart. And then the diagnosis came, clear and heavy:
Coarctation of the Aorta (CoA)
and
A large Ventricular Septal Defect (VSD).
Two defects. Two threats. One tiny heart fighting far harder than it should.
They explained that the aorta—the main vessel carrying blood from the heart—was dangerously narrow. And the large hole between the ventricles meant oxygen-rich and oxygen-poor blood were mixing, forcing his heart to work overtime.
We sat there listening, nodding, trying not to fall apart.
I chose to undergo an amniocentesis to rule out DiGeorge syndrome. Waiting for those results was agonizing, but when they came back clear, we felt a small sliver of relief in the middle of the storm.
From that point forward, our pregnancy became a schedule of hospital corridors, specialized scans, and weekly growth checks. Otis was dropping off the chart, growing smaller each time. Every scan felt like holding my breath under water, waiting to surface, waiting to hear good news, waiting to be told we could still hope.
Because we lived an hour and a half from the hospital where Otis needed to be delivered, we were booked for an induction at 38+6 weeks. Doctors wanted full control—they needed the neonatal and cardiac teams ready the moment he entered the world.
On September 6th, our boy arrived weighing 6lbs 15oz, tiny but perfect, and he was immediately taken to NICU. I didn’t get to hold him, not yet. Three hours felt like three days before they finally wheeled him to me, wrapped in wires and monitors.
I kissed his forehead, already knowing he wasn’t just a newborn—he was a little fighter.
For several days, Otis was closely monitored while his duct gradually closed. Surprisingly, he stabilized. The cardiac team told us what we desperately hoped to hear: he could go home for a little while to gain weight before surgery.
We left the hospital six days later, relieved but terrified.
Those first days at home were not the peaceful newborn weeks we had imagined. We had weekly echocardiograms, weight checks, and more moments of worry than sleep.
Otis started losing weight again—fast.
He was breathless during feeds.
He fussed constantly.
His whole body seemed exhausted.
On October 2nd, we were admitted to HDU. He was placed on high-flow vapotherm to help him breathe and fed through an NG tube because he was too weak to feed. Doctors told us he needed surgery as soon as possible.
The date was set: October 5th.
But then Otis developed a temperature.
His infection markers spiked.
His surgery was delayed.
The helplessness of handing your baby to a medical team is one thing. Watching that day get pushed further away while his condition worsens is another kind of heartbreak entirely.
Finally, on October 11th, Otis was taken into surgery.
I had never felt so sick in my life.
Nine hours.
Nine hours of pacing hospital floors, making bargains with the universe, jumping every time the phone rang.
When the surgeon finally emerged, we could barely stand.
He explained that Otis had a hypoplastic aortic arch—something they hadn’t fully seen before—and that the VSD was significantly larger and positioned awkwardly. But somehow, incredibly, they repaired both defects.
Our baby survived.
Our baby had been patched back together.
Our baby still had a fighting chance.
He spent five days in PICU, responding well to medication and remaining stable throughout. His drains were removed on day two. He was extubated on day three. Every tiny step forward felt like the universe giving us permission to breathe again.
We moved back to HDU, where Otis continued improving. There, he still needed low-flow vapotherm, and he had lines in his neck and groin, plus a pacemaker temporarily supporting his rhythm. But step by step, the lines came out. The pacemaker came out. The oxygen was discontinued.
And then, after three long weeks, I was finally able to breastfeed my baby again.
I cried the first time he latched—really cried—because after weeks of watching him fight to breathe, fight to eat, fight to stay alive, seeing him eat normally felt like witnessing a miracle.
We were moved to the ward, expecting to go home quickly. But again, Otis spiked a temperature. His infection markers rose. His sodium plummeted; his potassium shot up. More blood tests. More medications. More fear.
After an extra week of adjustments, monitoring, and prayers whispered into hospital pillows, Otis was finally discharged.
Four weeks in hospital.
Four weeks of trauma.
Four weeks of watching our baby fight harder than any person should.
But we walked out with our son in our arms, and that made every moment worth surviving.
Now, eight weeks post-surgery, Otis weighs 9lbs 11oz.
He is exclusively breastfed.
He is thriving.
His scar is healing beautifully.
His personality is shining.
And the best news of all: if everything continues going well, he shouldn’t need any more surgeries.
Our heart babies—they are warriors. They endure more in their first months than many do in a lifetime. But they also teach us what strength looks like, what resilience feels like, and how love can expand to hold both fear and hope at the same time.
Otis is our miracle.
Our brave little fighter.
Our reminder that even with a broken start, the heart can grow stronger than anyone ever imagined.
And we are endlessly, immeasurably proud of him.
Mickey’s Second Chance: The Brooklyn Yorkie Who Finally Found Love 244
Two years ago, in the busy streets of Brooklyn, New York, a tiny Yorkshire terrier searched through piles of garbage for food. It wasn’t just a bad day — it was his daily reality.
The little dog, later named Mickey, rarely went indoors. His owner kept him outside most of the time, forcing him to scavenge for scraps just to survive. Tangled clumps of matted fur weighed him down as he shuffled along sidewalks and alleys, dodging cars and exhaustion.
One neighbor watched this heartbreaking routine for months — the small, frail Yorkie risking his life for every meal — until they couldn’t stand it anymore. They called AMA Animal Rescue (AMA) for help.
The Rescue
“When somebody tried to approach him, he would run away, growl, and try to bite,” recalled Mariya Vlasova, AMA’s director of veterinary care. “He was snappy — scared, not mean.”
Rescuers visited several times, bringing hot dogs and patience. Slowly, Mickey began to trust them. Then, one day, they finally managed to catch him.
At the vet clinic, the team discovered just how badly Mickey had been neglected.
“He was extremely matted,” Vlasova said. “Yorkies need regular grooming, but it looked like he hadn’t been groomed in years. His fur had grown over his eyes, crusted with discharge — he couldn’t even see.”
Mickey also had a painful eye infection and was underweight. It was clear he’d spent most of his 13 years outdoors and alone. AMA persuaded his owner to surrender him — giving Mickey a long-overdue chance at care and compassion.
A Year of Healing
After being sedated, Mickey was shaved and treated. When he woke up, he was still wary — but now free from the mats that had blinded and hurt him for so long.
For the next year, he stayed at AMA’s shelter, slowly learning what safety felt like. At first, he avoided touch and barked at anyone who came too close. But over time, surrounded by gentle hands and kind voices, Mickey began to soften.
Eventually, a foster volunteer stepped forward — someone patient enough to help him continue healing.
“With his current foster, he has completely changed,” Vlasova said. “He allows her to wash him, pick him up, even touch his face. All he needed was time and patience to feel safe.”
A New Life at Fifteen
Today, at 15 years old, Mickey is almost unrecognizable. He sleeps on a soft bed every night, enjoys the company of other small dogs, and loves admiring himself in the mirror.
“We always joke that since he couldn’t see for so long because of the fur over his eyes, now he can’t get enough of his own reflection,” Vlasova laughed.
Mickey is officially up for adoption, but AMA hopes his next home will be one that understands his journey — that trust doesn’t come overnight, and kindness takes consistency.
“If you are soft, gentle, and kind, he will respond the same way,” Vlasova said. “Once he knows he can trust you, he’s an absolute sweetheart.”
After years of loneliness, Mickey finally knows what love feels like — and for him, that’s the greatest rescue of all.
If you’re interested in adopting Mickey or supporting dogs like him, visit AMA Animal Rescue’s website for more information.
