Charlie Jo is our third and final baby, and her story is one that we never imagined would become ours to tell. During my pregnancy, everything seemed normal. At her 20-week anatomy scan, the doctors assured us that her heart looked good. We were filled with excitement, eagerly awaiting the arrival of our healthy baby, unaware that our world was about to change forever.
Her birth came unexpectedly fast and without warning. We barely made it to the hospital, and within minutes, Charlie Jo was born—without a doctor, without an epidural, and with only two nurses in a chaotic, rushed delivery. The moment they placed her on my chest, I knew something was terribly wrong. Her skin was greyish-purple, and my heart sank as I whispered the words no mother ever wants to say: “She’s not breathing.”
In an instant, everything changed. Nurses rushed in, and they quickly took her away. I was left alone in a cold, empty room, my heart pounding, my mind racing, and my body shaking. My husband and I sat there in silence, staring at the door, waiting, terrified of what would happen next. A nurse practitioner eventually came in with news that we could barely process: Charlie Jo was being flown to Atlanta for immediate care. The hospital didn’t have the resources to help her. She needed to be flown away. I couldn’t fathom the weight of those words. Why was this happening to my baby?
Before they flew her out, they allowed us to see her one last time. My tiny baby, covered in wires, sedated, and intubated, looked nothing like the child we had dreamed of holding. I couldn’t touch her the way I wanted to, and watching the flight team place her in a small transport box broke me in a way words can’t describe. I signed her discharge papers, filling in her name, which we hadn’t even decided yet—Charlie Jo. It felt so final, so unreal.
When we arrived at the hospital in Atlanta, we saw our daughter surrounded by a team of doctors and nurses, machines beeping all around her. She was paralyzed, intubated, and lifeless—but somehow still alive. It was there we learned her diagnosis: D-Transposition of the Great Arteries with IVS, a congenital heart defect that required immediate open-heart surgery. Words I had never heard in my life became our harsh new reality.
In the following weeks, Charlie Jo fought through a series of unimaginable challenges. She suffered a stroke, seizures, blood clots, and fevers, all of which delayed her surgery. Each day felt like a storm of tests, scans, and unfamiliar medical jargon. We were drowning in information, fear, and uncertainty.
Finally, nearly three weeks later, the day of her surgery arrived. As I signed the consent papers, I felt like I was signing her life away. The procedure was complex. She would be placed on bypass, and there was a risk that her brain bleed could worsen. My stomach churned. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t think. I found myself praying to a God I was angry with, begging for a miracle, pleading with others to pray with us.
Hours passed. The surgeon finally appeared, and with the most blessed words we could have hoped for, he said, “Everything went as planned.” A wave of relief washed over me, but fear still lingered. Would the brain bleed worsen?
When we finally saw Charlie Jo after surgery, it took my breath away—not with awe, but with fear. Her tiny chest had been cut open, with tubes draining from it, and machines surrounding her. It was overwhelming to see my baby, so fragile, after everything she had just endured.
But then, the miracle we had prayed for: the brain bleed hadn’t spread. Slowly, Charlie Jo began to heal. She was extubated, the chest tube was removed, and her medications were gradually reduced. After three days, she moved to step-down care, where we learned to care for her ourselves. We were trained on wound care, medications, feeding tubes, injections, and even infant CPR. As heart parents, we carry not only the weight of our children’s health but also the responsibility of being prepared for anything.
After 30 long days, we finally brought Charlie Jo home. Those first 30 days weren’t what we had envisioned—they should have been filled with baby snuggles, bonding, and sleepless nights. Instead, they were filled with heartbreak, tears, wires, scans, and constant prayers. I mourned the days we lost, but I am eternally grateful for the miracle that Charlie Jo is.
Though she is repaired, her journey is far from over. The road ahead will be filled with visits to cardiologists, neurologists, and therapists. Charlie Jo will always live with her congenital heart defect. But through it all, she is our heart warrior—a miracle in every sense of the word.
My faith was shaken, but I now know that He was with her the entire time, holding her when I couldn’t. Charlie Jo has taught me the true meaning of strength, resilience, and the incredible power of love. Every challenge she faces, we face together. She is not just a survivor; she is a fighter, and her story is one of hope, courage, and unyielding determination.
We are forever grateful for our little warrior. Keep fighting, Charlie Jo. You are our miracle.
