When the doors of Freeman Hospital closed behind us, it felt like the world had stopped turning. Our daughter, Neive, lay fighting for her life — her tiny heart barely beating. The sounds of rushing footsteps, the steady beeping of machines, and the cold light of the emergency ward all blurred together into a haze of fear and disbelief. In those moments, the only thought echoing in my mind was: Please, let her live.
That night — and the days that followed — are a blur in my memory. I remember fragments: the anxious waiting, the endless cups of tea that went cold in my hands, the doctors’ quiet voices, the sterile smell of the hospital corridors. But above all, I remember the unbearable weight of watching my child slip between life and death.
Neive underwent emergency open-heart surgery that lasted nine and a half hours. Nine and a half hours — an eternity for a mother listening to the ticking of a clock outside the operating room. Every minute felt like a lifetime. I prayed, I cried, I sat in silence — too afraid to hope, too desperate to give up. And then, finally, the doors opened. The surgeons stepped out, exhausted but smiling faintly. “She’s made it through,” they said. Those words will stay with me forever.
Yet even after the operation, the battle was far from over. Neive was in intensive care, surrounded by machines that breathed and beat for her. I couldn’t bear to leave her side. Every instinct in me screamed that I had to stay, that my voice, my touch, my presence might somehow help her fight a little harder.
But life inside a hospital doesn’t stop for grief or fear. My husband, Scot, and I were physically and emotionally drained. We were hundreds of miles from home, clinging to each other while our world hung by a thread. And that’s when someone told us about Scott House, run by The Sick Children’s Trust.
Scott House became our lifeline. For six weeks, it was our home — our refuge — just a few minutes’ walk from Neive’s hospital bed. During those first two weeks, Scot and I stayed there together every night. We took turns sitting by Neive’s bedside, whispering to her, holding her hand, and then trading places so one of us could get a few hours of rest. Knowing that we were only a heartbeat away from her gave us a comfort no words can describe.
Scott House wasn’t just a building. It was a sanctuary built on kindness. The volunteers greeted us with warmth and compassion when we were at our weakest. Other parents stayed there too — each one carrying their own story of fear and hope. We shared tears, stories, and cups of tea in the kitchen late at night. In that house, no one had to explain their pain. Everyone simply understood.
There’s something profoundly human about being surrounded by strangers who somehow feel like family — bound together by the fragile courage it takes to keep believing. Scott House gave us not only a place to sleep but a place to breathe, to cry, to be human again.
Each morning, I would walk the short path from Scott House to the hospital, holding my breath until I saw Neive’s chest rise and fall. And each night, I would whisper to her that I was still there, that I would always be there.
Eventually, the day came when Neive opened her eyes — weak, but alive. Her heart, once so fragile, beat strong again. The surgeons, the nurses, and everyone who fought for her became part of our family. But behind that medical miracle was also another miracle — the quiet, steadfast support that allowed us to stay close. Without Scott House, I don’t know how we would have endured those six weeks.
When we finally left, walking out into the daylight with Neive in our arms, I looked back at the hospital and the little house beside it that had sheltered our hearts. Gratitude flooded through me — for the doctors who saved our daughter, for the trust that gave us a home, and for the strangers who stood beside us in our darkest days.
Today, when I look at Neive — laughing, playing, living — I am reminded that life’s most extraordinary moments often begin in the most ordinary places. Sometimes, hope isn’t loud or heroic. Sometimes, it’s simply a warm bed, a kind smile, and a short walk to the child you love more than anything in the world.
Scott House gave us that hope — and for that, we will be forever thankful.
