There are moments in life when everything changes in the space of a heartbeat. For us, that moment came when our son, Aydin, was rushed to the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). The fear, the machines, the quiet urgency of doctors’ voices — it all blurred into a haze of shock and exhaustion. In those first hours, we could barely process what was happening. All we knew was that our tiny baby was fighting for his life, and we had to be there for him.
But being there, truly being there, isn’t always easy. The days in NICU are long, the nights even longer. You lose track of time, of meals, of sleep. You move between hope and despair with every new update. And through it all, you just want to be close to your child. That’s why Chestnut House, run by The Sick Children’s Trust, became our lifeline.
We could not be more grateful for Chestnut House. It made everything easier — not because it changed what Aydin was going through, but because it allowed us to stay together, to stay strong. It gave us the one thing we needed most: closeness.
Those first few days were emotionally draining. The NICU is a world of constant beeping monitors and whispered conversations, where parents sit by incubators praying for miracles. I remember one day when Sal had to pop back home for a few hours. I went up to the NICU alone to wash Aydin’s milk bottles, and as the warm water ran over my hands, I just broke down. I sobbed quietly, unable to stop. It was exhaustion, fear, and love all rolled into one. I can’t imagine having gone through that without him — without us being together.
For 13 days, Chestnut House became our “home from home.” We settled into a rhythm — not because it was easy, but because it gave us a sense of control when everything else felt uncertain. Every morning we’d wake up, have breakfast, and head straight to see Aydin. At lunchtime, we’d return to Chestnut House, eat something simple, maybe take a short walk or a nap, and then head back to NICU. In the evenings, we’d have dinner and call our parents, updating them on Aydin’s progress before finally collapsing into bed.
We became almost robotic in our routine, but it was what we needed to survive. It helped us focus all our energy where it mattered most — on our baby boy.
The beauty of Chestnut House was its simplicity. It was close — just a few minutes’ walk from Aydin’s bedside. That closeness meant everything. We didn’t have to think about travel, parking, or the stress of getting back and forth. We could be with him in seconds if something changed. We could rest knowing that he was near.
And slowly, day by day, Aydin began to show signs of progress. After three days on the cooling mat, I was finally allowed to hold him for the first time. That first cuddle — the warmth of his tiny body against my chest — is a moment I’ll never forget. It felt like breathing again after holding my breath for days. Step by step, he began reaching milestones — each one small, but monumental to us.
We hadn’t even known Chestnut House existed before we arrived at the hospital. But now, we can’t imagine what those 13 days would have been like without it. It wasn’t just a place to stay — it was a haven of calm in the middle of chaos. It was a space that let us sleep, eat, and take care of ourselves enough to be strong for our son.
Inside Chestnut House, there was a sense of quiet understanding. Other parents were walking the same hard road, sharing nods of recognition, small smiles in the corridor, words of encouragement over morning coffee. It was a place where you didn’t have to explain your tears, because everyone there understood what it meant to love a child who’s fighting to survive.
When we finally left, carrying Aydin in our arms, the sunlight felt different — warmer, brighter, more alive. We looked back at the hospital and at Chestnut House beside it, and gratitude filled every part of us.
Because that little house didn’t just give us a room — it gave us strength. It gave us time together when time felt fragile. It gave us the chance to face each day as a team, not as two exhausted people trying to survive on their own.
Now, when I think back to those days, I realize that Chestnut House was more than just a roof over our heads — it was the foundation that held us up when everything else seemed to crumble. It was where we learned that even in the hardest moments, kindness can make all the difference.
We may not have known Chestnut House existed before, but it will always hold a special place in our hearts. It gave us what every parent of a sick child dreams of — the ability to be close, to be present, and to hold on to hope.
For that, and for the gift of togetherness, we will be forever grateful.
